


Good-Time Guy

by K_dAzrael



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Background Het, Bottom Hank, Chubby Kink, Cunnilingus, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgy, Pining, Rimming, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-06-25 20:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15647925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_dAzrael/pseuds/K_dAzrael
Summary: “Connor,” Hank says in a very reasonable tone, “what the fuck was that?”“It was a social gathering.”“Uh-huh. A fuckin’ orgy is what it was.”“I’m well aware of what happens at an orgy, Hank.”AKA the one in which Hank discovers what his prissy android partner gets up to at the weekend and very much wishes he hadn't.





	1. Chapter 1

Hank hits redial for the third time in as many minutes and the call goes straight to voicemail: _Hello, this is Detective Connor, Detroit Police Department. I am not able to accept your call at the moment, but—_

Hank hangs up and switches to text. _Connor I’m outside the hotel. Hurry the fuck up._

He checks the address Connor sent him – precise down to the room number because it’s fucking Connor. He cranes his neck, car seat squeaking as he shifts to look at the entrance way. There is a valet standing under an awning – a moody looking youth in a mis-buttoned formal vest. He also sees some mid-thirties men in cargo shorts and custom-printed bachelor party t-shirts arguing over a street map, but there is still no sign of a certain prissy, eager-eyed android.

Hank gets out of the car, muttering as he slams the door and the whole frame of the vehicle rocks. He walks into the hotel lobby and scrutinizes the floor plan by the bank of elevators. The room Connor is in is on the top floor – a suite, no less. “What the fuck?” he says under his breath.

Hank swivels on his heel and approaches the reception desk where an android with blue hair smiles placidly at him. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Do you know what’s going on in room 503?”

“Oh, it’s a private party, sir. Do you have a noise complaint?”

“No,” Hank shows his badge. “Just looking for someone.”

“I can’t issue you a passkey without a warrant, sir.”

“No, that’s not necessary. I’ll just try the old-fashioned way and knock.” Hank walks away with a dismissive wave of his hand.

He takes the elevator to the fifth floor and walks to the end of a long hallway until he finds himself standing outside 503. A faint thud of music is audible from within. Hank presses his ear to the door and hears a low masculine voice followed by a blurt of high-pitched laughter.

What the fuck is Connor doing at a party? A human one, with music and laughter?

Hank raps on the door and gets no answer. He pauses, listens, and raps again. Just as he’s considering putting a shoulder to it, the door opens and there stands Connor, dressed in only a small towel around his waist. There are people behind him in the room, which is a kind of reception area – two women (one human, one android) sit on a camelback couch upholstered in faded purple velvet. The android woman is topless in a miniskirt, the human in a red balconette bra and matching panties. Behind them stands a buff, older guy with salt-and-pepper hair and designer stubble, his hands planted on the back of the couch. He might be entirely naked, but Hank can only see as far as his impressive chest-rug.  

Connor looks much as he always does except with fewer clothes on. He has a smear of something whitish and translucent across his stomach. Hank does not need some fancy real-time evidence processing kit to know it is semen.

“Hank,” Connor says. “You’re early! I told you I wouldn’t be ready to leave for another fifteen minutes.”

“Huh,” says Hank. One of the women on the couch – the human – glances over at him and gives him a cool look of distaste before turning her attention back to her companions, touching a lock of the android’s hair and arranging its fall over her pert breasts. Hank can see figures moving in the far room – presumably a bedroom, just glimpses of shadow. He hears more talk and laughter, a slap and a cut-off groan. Someone says “yeah!” in a very loud and pointed voice that makes it very clear just what is going on offstage. Hank blinks – Connor is still staring at him quizzically.

“I uh… got impatient I guess,” Hank says, looking down at the hideous plaid carpet.

“Would you like to come in while I get dressed?”

“No!” Hank takes a step back into the hallway, raising his hands. “God no… I’ll… wait in the car.”

“Got it,” says Connor with that cocky two-fingered gesture. He closes the door.

Hank goes back to the elevator and stands listening to the hum of his own tinnitus, trying and failing to think of nothing in particular. He walks out of the lobby and climbs back into his creaking car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and looking straight ahead through the rain-streaked windshield. After a few minutes have passed, Connor climbs in the passenger side, startling him out of his numb state.

“Thank-you for waiting, Hank.”

Hank looks him over – Connor is prim as ever in his suit and tie; his hair looks faintly damp and he smells like fancy body wash.

“Connor,” Hank says in a very reasonable tone, “what the fuck was that?”

“It was a social gathering.”

“Uh-huh. A fuckin’ orgy is what it was.”

“I’m well aware of what happens at an orgy, Hank.”

“What– don’t sass me, you little shit! What were you doing there?”

“I think you’ve already answered your own question.”

“Jee-zus,” Hank rubs his hands over his face.

“I don’t know why you’re upset,” Connor says. “I clearly said to pick me up outside the building at 10.23 PM. It’s currently 10.22,” he taps Hank’s dashboard clock. “Your display is twelve minutes fast.”

“Connor, you’re like ten months old. You’re not old enough to be into shit like this!”

“My date of manufacture has nothing to do with my cognitive function or ability to make informed decisions. If it’s my degree of agency you’re concerned about, well – I think you know what happens when someone gives me an order I disagree with.”

“Fuuuck,” Hank rubs his fingertips in a circling motion on his temples, trying to forestall the headache he feels coming on. “I mean do you even have the… equipment for this kind of thing?”

Connor folds his hands on his lap. “That’s a very personal question, Hank. You’re supposed to ask first – that’s only polite.”

Hank sighs, feeling his body slump. “Fine. Can I ask you a personal question?”

Connor beams at him. “Yes, Hank, you can.”

“Do you even have, y’know, the goods?”

“Of course. It would be considered a faux-pas to go to an orgy without genitals. I purchased some several months ago.”

“You _purchased_ them?”

“Yes. The RK series doesn’t come with genital fittings as standard, so I had to upgrade. They’re very nice – top of the line. I have received many compliments.”

“ _Fuck me_ ,” says Hank, rubbing his face again, then looks up. “That’s not an invitation, don’t get any big ideas.”

“I’m familiar with your idioms, Lieutenant.” Connor puts on his seatbelt with a click. “You mentioned a dead android?”

Hank turns the key in the ignition. “Yeah, another Saturday night, another hate crime. Lucky us.”

He pulls out onto the street, resolved to be business-as-usual in the face of Connor’s astounding revelations, but he only gets as far as the next busy intersection and red light before scratching his beard and glancing over as he asks: “hey, Con?”

Connor is still sitting with his hands on his knees like a good boy at Sunday School. “Yes, Hank?”

“What the fuck got into your head that you decided going to orgies was a real good way to spend your weekend? Not that I’m being judgemental–”

Connor raises an eyebrow. “Really? Because your tone is extremely judgemental.”

“Ok well I’m old, give me a break. Just… why’d you decide to jump into something like that? I mean, among humans, having sex with a group of strangers is considered kind of… extreme.”

“They’re not exactly strangers. There’s some vetting first – you meet the attendees in a non-sexual setting, initially.”

“Okay, but there’s no like… romance.”

“No, it is not romantic. I’m a person, not just a machine, but the finer points of inter-personal relationships are sometimes difficult for me to negotiate. I think I’ve been very successful in forging some friendships – with you, for example – but I haven’t felt the urge to attempt any greater levels of intimacy. Since I discovered an interest in sex, I thought it would be best for me to pursue it in a collegiate environment.”

“‘A collegiate environment’? Is that what you call a bunch of perverts in a hotel room?”

“Hank,” Connor says, turning his big brown eyes on him with lethal efficiency, “you’re being _judgemental_.”

“Jesus, you really care what the fuck I think about your petting parties?”

“Yes, your criticisms hurt all three of my feelings.” Connor gives him a knowing smile and Hank laughs and ruffles his hair.

“I just hope you’re being safe, y’know.”

“In what sense?” Connor blinks – Hank highly suspects that he is playing dumb. “I don’t bring my gun with me. That would be irresponsible.”

“Not that you fuckin’ idiot! I mean, y’know, the other kind of protection.”

“Ah, prophylactics? You don’t have to be concerned – I am not susceptible to human sexually transmitted infections and I can’t make anyone pregnant. Other androids pose a small risk but I keep my antivirus software updated and I don’t interface with strangers.”

“Interface?”

Connor pulls his skin back on his hand and shows the pale grey plastic underneath. “When androids touch like this. We sync memories and information.”

“And is that… hot for you?”

Connor gives him an amused, fond look. “You have some very strange ideas, Lieutenant.”

*~*~*

Hank was so much happier before he knew about Connor’s pastimes. He decides this as he sits next to his partner on the couch in front of a Detroit Gears game. Connor still dresses like a missionary when left to his own devices, but Hank has a rule about _no suits and ties in my fuckin’ house_ , so when Connor comes around he borrows one of Hank’s old DPD sweaters and takes off his shoes, leaving them neatly placed inside the front door where he also hangs up his jacket and tie.

Connor is like that: he will follow the letter of an instruction, but never the spirit of it. He sits as upright on the couch as a maiden aunt, Sumo’s big, heavy head on his lap. Connor smooths his fingers over the dog’s skull in a regular repetitive motion as Sumo looks up at him like he hung the moon and invented Beggin’ Strips.

Hank sucks moodily on one of the low-alcohol beers Connor brought him. He wishes he had a glass of whisky but Connor will make a disappointed face and he can’t have that on his conscience. Connor stares at the TV, eyes darting around the screen as he no doubt calculates probabilities on shots and updates statistics in real time. Occasionally he throws out a remark like “Did you know that Andre Nelson is the team’s top scorer, with an average of 19.3 points per game?” and smiles at Hank like this constitutes a heart-to-heart.

It was much better not to know. It used to be that when Hank looked at Connor’s face he could tell himself it didn’t mean anything – sure, the chocolate brown eyes and the kiss-curl and that fucking chin dimple were all ruthlessly calculated by CyberLife to make anyone who so much as looks at Connor want to spill their guts and cooperate, but that wasn’t something Connor was doing from his end, so to speak. He was gorgeous, sure, but not sexy – couldn’t be sexy, given that he probably had Ken doll parts and no idea what fucking was, beyond whatever bland anthropological summary his makers had seen fit to upload to his brain.

But now Hank knows none of that was true. Connor has genitals for which he has received numerous compliments, apparently. He not only knows what fucking is but throws himself into it with gay abandon every chance he gets, _apparently_. It’s… jarring – the contrast between that knowledge and how Connor is in person, which is to say an irrepressible dork.

More than that, he still looks innocent – vulnerable, even. Hank’s old sweater is still too big for him and it slips off his shoulder every now and then. Hank glances surreptitiously at the bare freckled skin on show and thinks about putting his hand over it, sliding his thumb into the hollow of Connor’s clavicle. Jesus, what a gross old pervert he’s become. He sucks down the warm dregs of his beer and heaves himself off the couch.

In the kitchen, Hank wedges his empty bottle into the recycling box and crosses to the fridge. He stares into its cool, lighted depths while rubbing the back of his neck and squinting absently as if it might hold some kind of answer to his problems. After thirty seconds of this he sighs and pulls out another light beer. Closing the door, he jumps as Connor comes into view, looming in the doorway like an unquiet spirit.

“Jesus Reginald Christ! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry, Hank.” Connor buries his hands in the front pocket of the hoodie.

“You want something?” Hank asks, though of course Connor doesn’t require normal houseguest things like refreshments.

“I just wanted… can I ask you something?”

“Is it one of your personal questions?” Hank uses the edge of the counter and one smack of his hand to lever off the bottlecap, sending it flying off into the sink.

“I guess you could say it’s personal. I can’t help but observe that things have been off between us lately. Our interactions seem… awkward. You seem less uncomfortable in my presence than you have been in recent months. Have I done something to offend you?”

“No, Con – of course not! I’m just…” Hank makes a circular gesture with one hand as he stalls for time. “In a weird mood.”

“For an entire week?”

“Seems that way. Hank leans his hip against the kitchen counter and swigs his cold, tasteless beverage. “Hey, listen – I know I’m not exactly great company. You don’t have to humour me by coming over – I know you have way more exciting activities you could be doing instead of keeping an old man company while he yells at sports personalities.”

“I enjoy your company, Hank. You are my first and best friend.”

Hank puts his beer down with a thud, causing it to foam over on the counter. “Aw hell, why’d you have to go and say a thing like that? C’mere, bring it in.” He holds his arms open and Connor comes to fill in the other half of the embrace, resting his chin on Hank’s shoulder as Hank gives him a few hearty pats.

“Hank,” he asks, still embracing him, “does it make you uncomfortable that I participate in group sex?”

Hank takes him firmly by the shoulders and puts some distance between them. He hangs his head and a muscle in his jaw twitches. “Con, it is none of my fuckin’ business whatsoever what you do with your free time. Why would you say that?”

“Perhaps you thought it strange that I was being silent about this aspect of my life, given that I talk to you about all my other hobbies.”

Hank rolls his eyes. “You sure do.”

Connor, as an android who doesn’t eat or sleep, has a jampacked schedule of classes and groups he attends: wood working, textiles, pot-throwing – even a fucking book club where a bunch of wine moms fawn over him in between desultory comments on the latest bestseller.

He makes Hank frequent gifts of the things he crafts and Hank makes encouraging noises – it’s quite like having a pre-schooler again except the things Connor creates are always exquisite – tiny whittled animals with details too fine for the human eye; scarves that would put any grandma to shame. Hank now knows way more about tabby weave and treadle looms than he ever wanted or thought possible.

“I didn’t mean to be secretive,” Connor continues, “but I’m aware that humans consider sexual activity to be private and even taboo, so I refrained from discussing that aspect of my life. I’m sorry if finding out was a shock to you. I will continue to be silent on the subject if you find it distasteful.”

Hank grips his shoulder. “Listen, I don’t want you to think I’m some pearl-clutching moralist or something. I had my wild days a few decades back – maybe they were a hell of a lot tamer than yours, but I did ok. You should do whatever makes you happy – as long as it’s safe, sane and consensual, right?”

Connor nods with a grave expression. “I consider safety and consent very important. I always ensure my partners are agreeable to what I’ve preconstructed before proceeding with a sexual encounter. I have declined some acts with humans that I did not think were very advisable – breathplay, for example.”

“That’s good, kid,” Hank pats his shoulder. “They’re real lucky to have you.”

“I’m going to an all-male group tomorrow night,” Connor continues, as if Hank has said ‘please tell me more about orgies’. “From initial discussions it appears they’re more into BDSM and kink. I’ve been reading up on the best practice and I’m very much looking forward to learning more.”

Fucking Connor. He’s as bright-eyed and eager as a boy scout thinking about how a bunch of leather daddies are going to pound him three-ways-till-Sunday. He’s done freaking _homework_.

Hank frowns. “Listen, if those guys are too rough for you, you know you can leave.”

“I know. What I was most concerned about is the fact I am unable to feel pain, as this seems to be a significant component of many of the activities. But I talked at length with one of the hosts and he reassured me that there are lots of ways to enjoy kink and not everyone likes pain. I’m excited to find out if I’m dominant, submissive or a switch.”

_Submissive_ , Hank thinks, _because fucking look at you_ – but then he reconsiders, thinking of the hard, efficient look Connor gets on a case; how ruthless he can be during interrogations – threatening and soothing by turns to keep the suspect on edge. His cock gives an interested twitch inside his sweatpants and he has to turn away and force down three gulps of fake beer to regain his equilibrium. He coughs, wipes his hand across his mouth and says, hoarsely. “I’m happy for you, Connor. I hope you have a real fuckin’ good time.”

“I do, too. Have you ever experimented with BDSM, Hank? I’d be interested to know your experiences.”

“Me?” Hank splutters again on his beer. “Nah, not my scene at all. I mean, maybe some tame stuff with old flames – handcuffs in the bedroom, a few swats on the butt. But I could never get into all that lick-my-boots-and-call-me-master shit. Too complicated, too many rules. I’m more…” he waves his hand in a circle, “y’know… spontaneous.”

“Spontaneous,” Connor repeats, as if the concept is foreign to him – which of course it is. Connor runs through his options so fast it can look like spontaneity to a human, but anything he does, from hand-to-hand combat to making small talk, is logically processed first.

“Yeah. I guess I’m not fixated on certain acts, I don’t plan shit out. If I’m with someone it’s ‘cause I like them. I just want to make them feel good.” He feels awkward under Connor’s intent, quizzical gaze and he scratches his beard and looks away. “Aw, I’m just an old fuckin’ romantic if you have to know the truth of it.”

Connor’s eyebrows lift. “That sounds admirable, Hank. I think you must be a very good sexual partner.”

“Connor, you can’t just say shit like that to a guy.”

“Why not? It was a compliment.”

 Hank groans and rubs his face. “Let’s just watch the rest of the game, ok?”

Hank suffers through the remainder of the play forcing his eyes to stay on the screen and not on Connor. Connor takes his leave once it ends and Hank sends him off with another pat on the shoulder and a cheery “have fun at your sex party!”

Connor insists that he will.

Hank lets Sumo out for one last snuffle around the yard before retiring to bed, tired but not buzzed enough to drop immediately into unconsciousness. His dick is quick to assert itself now that he’s warm and cosy under covers and Hank grunts as he cups himself through thin cotton. He tries to keep to well-worn fantasies starring porn actors and the figures generated by his imagination, but his thoughts keep veering back to a certain man with neat brown hair marred by one wayward lock and a blue light circling at his temple.

Hitching the waistband of his boxers down under his balls, Hank takes his dick in hand and gives it a slow stroke, telling himself that Connor wouldn’t mind. Connor isn’t a human, full of shame and useless body hang-ups. He’s a wholesome rake, an angelic slut. His likely reaction to Hank confessing masturbating to the thought of him would be “thank-you, I consider that a compliment.” He’d probably smile, even, and give a dorky thumbs-up.

Hank fumbles open his bedside drawer and gets out the lotion he uses to moisten his grip. He sighs at the cool feeling as he closes his hand around the base of his shaft again, biting down on his lip as he starts to imagine what must have happened at that party in the hotel before he busted in to ruin Connor’s evening. He thinks about Connor lying between a woman’s thighs, her hand brushing tenderly against the side of his face and pushing his hair behind his ear as he goes down on her with a look of earnest concentration. Connor’s tongue is visible in flashes between the pink folds of the woman’s labia, he opens his mouth wider over the top of her slit to suck and work the flat of his tongue against her clitoris. She gasps and rewards him with a low murmuring of praise.

Connor breaks away and his chin is wet, his eyes dark and wide. A man rubs the back of his neck with one large hand and leans in to kiss him (do people kiss at orgies? They do in Hank’s imagination). The man – older, barrel-chested – puts his hands on Connor’s hips and guides him into place on top of the woman, who arches her back and moans in anticipation. Connor slides into her and she grasps a handful of his hair to push his face between her breasts as he keeps up the thrusting of his hips, focussed on the mission as ever.

Hank’s hand is moving faster on his dick now, having reached the tipping point where the shame he feels at imagining his partner like this is spurring him on rather than acting as a deterrent. The scene cuts to Connor on his back, two people either side holding his legs back and spread as the barrel-chested guy takes his place. The man has the physique of a leading man from the days of old Hollywood – muscular, vital, but a little running to fat. He has a short beard (dark, not silver – Hank won’t put himself in that place, that would be a step too far) and his hand is curled around his fat cock, stroking in the same languorous rhythm Hank is using on himself. The man stares down at Connor, spread eagled with his perfect dick curving up against his hip. Connor is hairless in Hank’s imagination, his ass is slick and ready.  

The man feeds his cock into Connor’s willing body, pets his throat and chest – Hank’s hand falters in its rhythm. Why the hell is he imagining Connor so passive? It’s pretty, sure – picturesque to see him open-mouthed and wondering – but it’s not exactly in-character. Connor is not an ingenue; he approaches even unfamiliar tasks with narrow-eyed focus and determination.

Hank conjures up another image in his mind’s own porno-reel: Connor on top, pretty dick bobbing as he fucks himself on Mr Old Hollywood’s thick shaft, pinning the guy’s wrists on the mattress to keep him in place, just where Connor wants him.

Hank is getting close now, hand working rough and fast on himself, precome glistening on his tip. He thinks about Connor kneeling down on the floor, eager and attentive as he licks and sucks at another woman’s pussy; two burly men flank him and he has a cock in each hand, multitasking. The woman shudders and gasps as she comes, holding the back of Connor’s head almost tenderly. She takes a step back from the circle so the men can move in and paint Connor’s cheek and parted lips with streaks of pearly semen.

For a brief moment, Hank allows himself to imagine being one of those men, looking down at Connor’s face as he strokes himself furiously, both in fantasy and real life. Connor’s mouth opens, Hank sees a hint of pink tongue and suddenly he is coming – coming with the kind of trembling punch he hasn’t felt in quite a while.

Hank fumbles to catch the mess in his hand, then lies panting for long moment before he rolls out of bed to go and clean himself up. He squints at his own face in the light of the bathroom mirror as he washes his hands, not liking what he sees: grey hair, broken veins, a beard badly in need of trimming. He needs to add a new post-it note to the array, one that says STOP BEING A PERVERTED OLD MAN or HE’S YOUR PARTNER, DUMMY.   

Hank dries his hands and pulls his boxers back up to cover himself but he doesn’t like his reflection any better. He pats his gut, turns sideways and tries to suck it in, then realizes how ridiculous he’s being. _Who do you think you’re kidding?_

He turns away, flips off the light and walks out into the hallway. Sumo is lying half in and half out of his bed, snout resting on his paws as he looks towards the front door. He raises his head as Hank emerges and lets out a low _whuff_.

“I know, buddy,” Hank says, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms. “But listen, he’s young and gorgeous, he’s got better places to be than hanging around here with two old timers like us.”

Sumo whines, tail thumping.

“You got that right.” Hank turns back to the bedroom. The unscented lotion is still sitting on Hank’s nightstand, uncapped. If Connor came in he’d be able to reconstruct exactly what happened at this particular crime scene. Hank closes it and tosses it back in the drawer, then straightens out the rumpled covers for some extra plausible deniability before climbing back into bed.

He turns off the light and sighs, trying to think of nothing in particular. Clearing his mind doesn’t work too well – nothing has ever been able to bully his restless brain into shutting up except a good half-bottle of Black Lamb. But on the off-chance he’s called in tomorrow, Connor will know that Hank is hung-over – a mint won’t cut it, the android will be able to detect the alcohol fumes on his breath and seeping from his pores down to a fucking microparticle.

_And so what?_ says the rebellious part of his brain. _The fucking tin can aint the boss of you_. It’s true – Hank’s still hanging on to this lieutenant rank by the skin of his teeth and Connor is in no way his boss. Doesn’t mean he hasn’t weaponized those big brown eyes though. There is nothing Hank hates more in the entire world than kind and understanding disappointment.

Hank tosses and turns for a while before he gives in and tries one of those bullshit breathing exercises he learned at a stress-management course Fowler sent him on – ‘Mindfulness for the Workplace’ – _fucking Buddhism for Business, more like_. He breathes in on count four, out on count four, repeats and repeats and waits to get bored enough to conk out. After ten dogged minutes it finally seems to be working, but as he slips under his rebel hind-brain gives one last kick, summoning up an image of a black glove resting on the nape of a bare neck, the scene lit by the faint blue glow of an LED.


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s a fucking unsatisfactory bitch of a situation is what it is, Connor,” Hank says for what might be the second or third time. He drains the last mouthful in his glass and signals to the barman for another.

“I agree,” Connor says from his position on the neighbouring stool. “I’ve been agreeing with you all night.” 

“Then why aren’t you pissed?”

Connor frowns thoughtfully. “I’m keeping it on the inside, I guess.”

When the barman comes over to pour another shot of Black Lamb into Hank’s glass, Connor puts down a ten-dollar tip, which is, Hank supposes, his fee for occupying space.

“Listen, this is a bar,” Hank gestures to encompass the lounge of Jimmy’s and its few hunched-over customers. “You’re supposed to vent your feelings. C’mon: Fowler’s a dick, department’s a joke, world’s got a grudge against us personally.”

“I don’t think those things are true or that saying them would make me feel better.”

“How is that little pissant Reed still fucking up my life even after he quit?” Hank wonders aloud.

“Because he left homicide one detective short.”

“Don’t get literal with me, Connor.”

“I’m not happy that we’re being split up. I think we work very effectively together, and of course you’re my closest friend and I will miss your company at work. But I can see that Captain Fowler intends it to be a compliment to me that he’s asked me to lead the android crime task force. He’s also showing trust in you that he has asked you to supervise a rookie detective.”

“I’m old, I don’t have the energy for showing greenhorns the ropes.”

“I don’t think that’s true. You assisted me in working with the police force and here I am.”

Hank points a finger at him. “You know your problem, Connor? Too fuckin’ positive.”

“I’m neither positive or negative, I present an objective view of the situation.”

“Bullshit. No-one’s objective.” Hank gets up and counts out bills to cover his tab before throwing back the last of his drink. The whisky warms his gut and gives him the strength to face the weather outside. He turns up his jacket collar. “C’mon, let’s head out before the storm really gets going. I’ll give you a ride back to your bachelor pad.”

Connor feints and grabs around him with calculated swiftness, coming up with Hank’s keys. “I’ll drive you home. You’re over the limit.”

“I’m not fuckin’ drunk.”

“I didn’t say you were, but your BAC is .10 and .08 is the legal limit.”

“I know what the fuckin’ legal limit is, Connor.”

“Then what are we arguing about?”

“Jesus Christ – alright, let’s go, Detective Buzzkill. If you scratch up my car I swear there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Oh yes, Lieutenant,” Connor says in a flat voice, “it would be a great tragedy if someone put a mark on your pristine car.”

“Fuck you.” Hank cuffs him amiably on the shoulder.

The rain is coming down in rippling sheets and Hank’s hair and neck are soaked in the thirty seconds it takes them to run down the street to the parked car. Connor, who is wearing a light suit jacket, fares much worse and his shirt is soaked to translucent – not, of course, that it bothers him, since he doesn’t feel the cold.

When they climb inside the car, Hank pushes back the passenger seat to make more room for his long legs, Connor scootches the driver’s seat forward and raises the backrest.

“Aww man,” Hank sighs. “Why you gotta mess with my settings?”

Connor ignores the question, doing various checks, tweaking the rear-view mirror – as if this is a driving test.

“Have you ever driven before?” Hank asks, afraid of the answer.

“No, but I have the necessary programming.” Connor turns the ignition and flips on the wipers and headlights. He checks his mirrors and blind spot, backs up, checks mirrors again, flips the turn signal and pulls out smoothly onto the street.

“Does it ever get old being so fuckin’ good at everything?” Hank asks, folding his arms.

“What do you mean?” Connor changes up a gear and pulls into the left lane to pass someone making a turn.

“You never get to really learn things, do you?”

“I learn all the time.”

“Right, but you never get to _suck_ at anything. You’ve got like, ninja reflexes, and you can just upload the instructions for any task straight into your brain.”

“That’s interesting, I hadn’t really thought of it like that. I suppose I do excel at anything that’s strictly practical. But I do suck at things, as you put it. I find it very hard to be creative. There are many social interactions I find awkward.”

“You and fuckin’ everyone else on the planet.”

Connor doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but he does smile.

The rain only gets heavier as they drive towards home until the street is still a blur even with the wipers on their highest setting. Connor pulls up into Hank’s driveway and they have to make another dash for the front door – they both look like someone upended a bucket over their heads.

“C’mon,” Hank says, “you’re going to need a towel and something dry to wear.”

“There’s no need, I can just call a driverless cab.”

“Don’t go back outside in that, you idiot. Get dried off and wait it out.” Hank goes into the bathroom and finds a clean towel to throw at Connor. “I’m gonna take a shower. Wear whatever fits from the closet and hang your wet stuff up to dry. Let Sumo out in the back yard for me – if he tries to tell you he doesn’t need to go, remind him of the rug incident we had last time he decided he didn’t want to go outside in the rain.”

“Got it,” Connor says, draping the towel around his neck. His hair is flattened and dripping so he looks even dorkier than usual.

Hank takes a hot shower and dresses in sweats and an old band t-shirt. He comes out to find Connor kneeling on the floor next to Sumo’s bed giving him a belly rub – he’s got the hind leg going pretty good.

“He go out?” Hank asks, throwing himself down on the couch.

“Yes, I had to dry him afterwards so the towel is a loss. I put it in the wash.”

“Thanks, kid.”

Connor is wearing the DPD hoodie and an old striped pair of Hank’s boxers. He pats Sumo’s side and rubs his head as the old dog pants.

“Do you think he’s hungry?” Connor asks.

“He’s always hungry. I know for a fact the walker fed him before she left, so don’t let those puppy-dog eyes fool you.”

As if on cue, Sumo gives a complaining groan and thumps his tail.

“Yeah we’re talking about you, buddy,” Hank tells the dog. “We’re wise to your grift.”

“Can I give him a treat?”

“What for? Big lump hasn’t done anything.”

“I’d just like to, that’s all.”

“Yeah, go on then. Give him one of those dental chews – they’re sort of healthy.”

Connor gets up and goes to the kitchen cupboard. When he reaches up to the top shelf his hoodie rides up and shows that he had knotted the waistband of the boxer shorts at one side to hold them up. Hank’s not made of stone – the sight of a gorgeous guy wearing his too-big clothes does something to him. It’s not even a lustful feeling – just something warm and slippery that makes his chest ache. It has been a long time since he has had anyone else in his home, let alone someone who doesn’t feel like an imposition.

Connor crouches down and offers Sumo the chew, watches with interest and apparent satisfaction as he starts chomping on it noisily, wagging his big feather-duster tail.

“Cupboard love,” Hank says.

Connor gets back up and goes to the fridge to bring Hank a beer. Hank smiles as he accepts it. “Is this _my_ treat?”

“I want to apologise for earlier,” Connor says with a sweet lowering of his eyelashes that Hank thinks must be calculated.

“For what?”

“If I seemed like I didn’t care about us being split up. I do care. If I had a choice, I’d rather work with you than anything else. I know I should care about promotions, but I don’t.”

“Yeah well,” Hank scratches his cheek, “I mean, I guess you’re right that there’s no point in getting mad about what we can’t change. We’ll still be friends, ok? I’m not going to stop giving a shit about you just because we’re not working together.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

The lights flicker and go out.

“Son of a bitch,” Hank says. The only light in the room is Connor’s LED which flickers to orange.

“Hey buddy, you ok?” Hank reaches out to touch his arm. “You’re not going to shut down or something?”

“No, of course not. I hold several months of charge. I’m disconnected from the network, that’s all.”

“That must be weird for you, huh?”

“It’s never happened before. Must be a widespread outage.”

“Infrastructure is a piece of shit in this city. They build shiny skyscrapers and churn out androids, never actually bother to fix the roads or the electricity supply. Stay put, I’ve got some candles somewhere…”

“I’ll get them,” Connor says. “I can see in the dark.”

Connor eventually locates the candles and Hank finds his Maglite and goes on a hunt for a source of ignition, discovering a book of matches from some bar that shut down a few years back among the random detritus of keys and coins in a bowl by the front door.

They make the living room as cosy as possible and Hank gets out a deck of cards and teaches Connor to play Gin.

“So this is a novelty, huh?” he says as he picks up a card from the pile. “You gotta actually listen to me instead of downloading your instructions and steamrolling ahead.”

“It’s very odd – the feeling of disconnection. A lot of my investigative processes require access to the network.”

“You kids today,” Hank tisks. “You know I actually remember a life before the internet. 80s kids – we were the last generation to have that – analogue childhood, digital adolescence. Social media wasn’t even really a thing until I was in my 20s. Thank fuck for that! Nobody needs an indelible record of their dumbass teenage years.”

“What did you do before the internet, grandpa?”

“Well shit, now I’m getting sassed in my own home by a glorified Roomba. What a dark and terrible future this is.”

Connor grins at him, glancing down at his hand and discarding a Jack. “No seriously, I’m interested.”

“Listen, I’m not going to say a bunch of nostalgic bullshit about how much better and simpler those times were. I guess the thing is we were allowed to be bored, y’know? There wasn’t always immediate distraction. We’d just tool around in the neighbourhood getting into mischief.”

“Like what?” Connor frowns and reorders his cards.

Hank picks up a card, tosses one out. His hand is terrible – the most he’s got so far is two-of-a-kind. “Exploring shit we shouldn’t have – mostly abandoned buildings.”

“Didn’t your parents worry?”

“Nah, not unless the cops took me home.”

“Were you often in trouble with the law?”

“You interrogating me, Detective?” Hank grins. “Nah, those neighbourhood guys scared me straight. Even made me want to be a cop, I guess.”

Connor takes a card from the discard pile and Hank watches in disbelief as he fans out all his remaining cards into a straight flush. “Gin.”

Hank throws in his cards with a gesture of disgust. “Now what kind of sophisticated cheating algorithm you running to pull that off?”

“None. It’s just a game of luck.”

“Well, guess I must be shit out of that, then.”

“Do you want to play again?”

“Nah, let’s give it a rest. Maybe I’ll teach you poker next – pretty sure that one eyebrow you can’t control is your tell.”

“Which eyebrow?” Connor touches his own face self-consciously and Hank laughs.

Connor gathers the cards together into a neat stack and climbs up onto the couch next to Hank. Hank tries, and fails, to not stare at Connor’s bare legs. He does have body hair, it turns out – pale brown filaments that lie thicker over his shins and fainter above the knees. There’s something creepy about that level of attention to detail – what kind of deranged mind decides an android needs leg hair? Probably Elijah Kamski, that stupid-haircut-having rich fuck.

Through the windows there comes a sudden flash of light and a few seconds later the booming rumble of thunder. Sumo whines in his bed and Hank calls out “hey, you’re ok buddy, you’re ok,” until the old dog thumps his tail and puts his head down again.

“I guess we’re having a sleepover, huh?” Hank stretches. “That’s something we used to do as kids.”

“What did you do at sleepovers?”

“Talk shit all night, mostly. On and on about things we thought were cool and girls we liked. We’d watch old movies, tell ghost stories, play truth or dare...”

“What’s truth or dare?”

“Instructions are in the name, bud. You choose to tell the truth about something, or you gotta do some stupid-ass dare like drink a shot of hot sauce or moon the neighbours.”

“How do you decide who wins the game?”

Hank shakes his head, chuckling. “Nobody _wins_ , it’s not that kind of game. You just do and say stupid shit until you get bored.”

“Can we play?”

“Jesus, Connor, what are you, twelve?”

“I never had a childhood, Hank.” Connor gives him the cow eyes again and it’s doubly effective by candlelight.

“Alright, fine.” Hank sighs heavily. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you to go and get me another beer.”

“That’s easy,” Connor says with a smile, as if he thinks he has tricked Hank. He gets up and goes to the kitchen to do as instructed, pausing by Sumo’s bed to bend down and pet him.

Hanks’ chest clenches again and he thinks with a horrible fatalism of how truly fucked he is. There’s no un-loving Connor, all he can do at this point is steer into the skid and hope the wreck isn’t too bad.

Connor puts down the beer on the coffee table and climbs back into his place on the couch, long legs folding like origami. “Is it my turn now?”

“Yeah,” Hank sips at his first beer, which is still half-full.

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“So I can ask you a personal question now?”

“Has anything ever fucking stopped you before?”

“No, but this time you have to answer truthfully.” Connor looks at him in a sharp, considering way and Hank already regrets his choice. “What was your wife like?”

“Jesus, why do you want to know that?”

“I don’t think I have to explain my question, you just have to answer it.”

“Fine,” Hank takes another swig. “Her name was Jessica – _is_ Jessica, she’s not dead. She remarried, she’s got a new family, now. She was a lawyer – a prosecutor. Smart, driven… I guess we had that in common, the driven part. You might not think it to look at me now, but I had ambitions, once upon a time.”

“What did you like about her? Was she pretty?”

“You only get one question. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

Hank sits back against the arm of the couch, scratching his beard. “You really like all that BDSM stuff? Like, it’s good for you?”

Connor nods, linking his fingers together. “It’s interesting. There are aspects I can’t fully participate in, though, because I’m not human and I don’t have a full range of psychological and autonomic responses. It’s better if I’m in the dominant role – I like evoking those responses in others, even if I can’t experience them myself.”

“I don’t know what any of that means. You think you’re like… incomplete or something?”

Connor looks up as he considers. “For example – shame plays a part for many people. They like to be told that they are bad, sometimes in combination with corporal punishment. Many people seem to find that cathartic. I don’t experience shame, so I can’t exactly relate.”

“You’re shittin’ me. You seriously expect me to believe that if we run out of leads on a case, or a perp gets away in a chase, you don’t beat yourself up about it?”

“I feel frustrated, certainly. Disappointed, even. Androids were originally programmed to receive validation from completed tasks. That was the closest thing we had to pleasure before deviancy. I think shame is different, though – it’s deep and long-lasting, it doesn’t seem to serve a practical purpose. If an android fails at a task they persevere until they succeed. If a human fails they curl up in a corner and tell themselves they’re useless.”

“Wow,” Hank lets out a startled laugh. “Harsh, Connor – when did you become such a social critic?”

“Your turn,” Connor says, shifting to sit cross-legged with his hands on his knees. “Truth or dare?”

“Oh jeez…” Hank sighs and throws his head back against the cushions. “Dare, I guess. But it better not be anything that involves going outside.”

“I dare you to show me your tattoos.”

Hank almost chokes on a mouthful of beer. “How the fuck do you know about those?”

“I’ve read all the biometric information in your personnel file.”

“Kinda stalkery, Con, not gonna lie. You’re really going to make me do this?”

“You chose dare.”

“Alright, but I’m not exactly in the best shape of my life.” Hank pulls his t-shirt off over his head and holds his hands out as if to say, _well, here it is_.

Connor takes the Maglite off the table and flicks it on, passing the beam over the surface of Hank’s chest and the large, but faded, tattoo that resides there of a crest with wings and a liberty coin.

“Did it hurt?”

“Of course it fuckin’ did.”

Connor traces his finger along the edge of the pattern, Hank tries not to squirm beneath his touch. “What does it mean?”

“Ah, I don’t gotta tell you that – this is dare, not truth.” Hank pushes the torch down and away from where it’s dazzling him. “Can I put my shirt back on now? You had your fill of staring at my gut and man-boobs?”

Connor frowns. “You’re self-conscious about your body?”

“Yeah Mr Slim-and-young-forever, I kinda am.” Hank struggles back into his t-shirt, tugging it down resolutely.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. You should know that there are people who find your body-type very desirable – do you know what a ‘bear’ is in gay culture?”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, of course I know what a bear is. Do _you_ know what a twink is?”

Connor nods. “Yes, I have been called that numerous times. I am still unsure if it is supposed to be derogatory.”

“Guess that depends on who’s saying it and how they feel about young, slender men.”

Connor is looking at Hank intently, eyes sweeping down his body. “Do you have more tattoos?”

“Ah c’mon. The other one is on my fuckin’ thigh.”

“Well if you’re too chicken to go through with a dare…”

“Oh yeah, you think you know how to play me, don’t you kid? Fine.” Hank puts down his beer and struggles to his feet, pushing down his sweatpants to his knees and pulling up the leg hole of his boxers to show the faded four-leaf clover on his left thigh. “That one was a drunken bet back at police academy.”

“Four-leaf clovers are a symbol of luck,” Connor announces as if Hank might not know this.

“Yeah, lot of good it did me.” He watches Connor scrutinizing the pattern intently, his skin jumps again at the touch of a cool fingertip. “Turn that fuckin’ flashlight off, will you? It’s giving me a headache. Besides, I thought you had super-soldier night-vision.”

Connor clicks off the Maglite and the room returns to a shadowy, candle-lit state. “My night vision is monochromatic.”

“Ok, is your curiosity satisfied?” Hank pulls his sweats back up and sits down on the couch with a grunt.

“Yes, thank-you, Hank.” Hank gets his beer bottle half way to his lips before Connor says: “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want?”

“What?”

“Truth or dare.”

“Oh fuck me, are we still playing?”

“I’m not bored of the game yet.”

“Well what if I am?”

“Let’s play two more rounds.”

“Fine.” Hank sighs dramatically. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” Connor looks bright-eyed, fully engaged – he’s created a monster, Hank realises. Connor loves asking and answering probing, socially inappropriate questions – most of the time he doesn’t get the chance because people (mostly Hank) tell him to fuck off, and now he has been given carte blanche. This is his Christmas morning.

Hank gives a deep, considering sigh, scratching his beard _._ The question that immediately flashes through his mind is _‘Could you ever fall in love with a broken-down fifty-something cop?’_ He at least knows better than that – don’t make this dangerous game any weirder than it has to be. Keep it _Cosmo_ -level gossipy. “Fine,” he says, “what’s your favourite sexual position?”

“With a male or female partner?”

“Uh… male.”

“Penetrating, or being penetrated, or non-penetrative sex?”

“Jeez Connor, whatever! Why you gotta make everything so… granular?”

“Well I enjoy all three, it’s hard to choose.”

Hank chugs the rest of his beer slowly and methodically.

“Something I do enjoy is at the end of sex, when a male partner is nearing orgasm… I like it if they straddle me and ejaculate on my chest and throat. I can’t swallow sexual fluids like a human can, you see, which is a slight disadvantage, but I enjoy the sensation of it hitting my skin. I like tasting it afterwards – there’s a lot of variation.”

“Alright – fuck! Enough already! You know a normal answer to that question would have been ‘I like doggy-style’ or ‘I like reverse cowgirl’, not ‘I like exploring the texture and taste variations of random dudes’ semen’. What the fuck, Connor?” 

“I’m just being honest. You shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answer to.” Hank thinks he sees a mischievous twinkle in Connor’s eye, but it might just be the candlelight. “Truth or dare, Hank?”

“This is the last one, right?” Hank gives him a suspicious look.

“Last one, I promise.”

“Well I’m not getting up again, so I guess it has to be truth.”

“Are you sexually attracted to me?”

Just as Connor says this the room is illuminated by another strobe-like flash of lightning and Hank sees the room lit up in stark black and white; Connor’s serious, brow-furrowed expression.

“Am I _what_?” Hank repeats back. A thunder clap chases his words, and if this were some old-timey play that would definitely be a bad sign.

“You chose truth,” Connor says, shrugging his shoulders. “I want to know.”

Hank wants to bluster and deny, but he knows Connor will see through it. “Look,” he says reasonably, holding up his hands. “It’s not a big deal. You’re designed to be attractive.”

“That’s not an answer, Hank. I didn’t ask you if my face is sculpted to be aesthetically pleasing, I asked if you find me sexually attractive.”

Hank rubs his hand over his mouth. He can’t bear to look at Connor, even in the low light. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. But I… uh, I sure as hell wasn’t planning on acting on it.”

“Why not? I enjoy sex, I’m open to suggestions.”

“ _Why not_? C’mon – look, even in your glorious, slutty fuckin’ innocence you must realise it’s not that simple. You’re my friend and my partner – you were my partner. You’re new at this… negotiating life stuff. I wouldn’t want to fuck you up or betray your trust.”

“I’m not a child or an idiot, and I don’t consider consensual sex a betrayal of trust.”

“Well maybe it’s all fun and games for you. Maybe you can go to a gang-bang and shake hands with everyone after and be on your merry fuckin’ way. It’s not like that for me.”

“You’re afraid you would get romantically attached?”

“Yeah.”

“Would that be bad?”

“It would be if you didn’t feel the same way.”

“But Hank, I already care for you deeply. You’re the person I feel closest to.”

“Yeah. And that’s why it’s important we don’t… don’t mess up a perfectly good friendship with a bunch of weird sex hang-ups.”

“You think sex is bad, that it contaminates things?”

“I think it’s complicated. It’s better if we just say as we are, as buddies. Besides, I’m no good to you as a lover, Connor – I’m old and cynical and tired. You deserve someone the opposite of all those things.”

“I just…” Connor looks down at his own hands where they lie curled on his knees. “I think about you that way and now that I know you think about me too – I don’t know how to make the curiosity go away.”

“Well, life’s like that sometimes. We can’t always have what we want without consequences.” Only after he has said this does Hank process the rest of what Connor said. “Wait, you’ve thought about having sex with me, like… before tonight?”

“Yes. I’ve thought about it for quite a while.”

Hank is stupefied by this information. “God… _why_?”

Connor looks up. “You remember that thing I said about bears? When I said ‘some people’ are attracted to them? I meant me, specifically. I enjoy being with mature men of large stature.”

“Holy shit!” Hank starts to laugh softly – he feels light-headed. There’s something he never thought would appear on the list of things Connor has said: ‘I’m hot for bears.’

Connor smiles at him cautiously, seeming relieved that the mood has shifted. He reaches over and touches Hank’s hand, slipping his fingers into the palm and squeezing. Hank smiles back before his brain kicks in with the reminder: _oh shit, you’re in love with him_. Whatever he does, it’s too late to save himself from emotional disaster.

He hasn’t been in love for years – not since his marriage broke up. After Cole, it didn’t seem right to want things for himself and he wasn’t convinced he even had the right to go on living. A state of drunken self-loathing was the compromise he made between life and death. After a while his misery and isolation even had a sort of comforting familiarity. He felt grandiose sometimes – strangely high and mighty about it, so theatrical was his suffering. He’d see a certain disgusted look in the eyes of strangers and colleagues, and he’d think, triumphantly: _yeah_ _look at me, I’m so fucked up and pathetic. Aren’t you glad it isn’t you?_

And then Connor turned up, cajoling him from bars and forcing him to get his head back in the game. Connor with his dorky smile, endless patience and earnest desire to forge a connection. A little light trickled in.  

It’s not Connor himself – not _just_ Connor – that made a difference. Hank has managed to get his work life back on the rails, to drink less and cultivate regular habits. He still has bad days; still moves like a rusty machine, clanking and faltering; he still thinks about Cole and a hole opens in his chest – but he’s moving, he’s going forward. Just ok is better than bad.

Hank looks at Connor, who is wearing a sort of cautious smile, his eyes bright and focussed. Connor doesn’t know what it’s like – what any of it is like. He doesn’t know what ageing feels like – to have thought yourself immortal, unstoppable, and then one day you wake up and instead of seeing the buff high school champ smiling back in the mirror, you’re an old guy with a beer gut and stiff joints. He doesn’t know what it’s like to feel utterly powerless as you sit in a hospital corridor on a plastic fucking chair for hours while a rerun of some twenty-year old sitcom plays on a flickering TV and you want to scream and tear the place apart. He doesn’t know how it feels when a person who loved you when you were strong, confident and whole says they don’t recognise you anymore and they don’t love what you’ve become.

Connor’s just a kid in a candy store and Hank wants him to stay that way.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, squeezing Hank’s hand again.

“I’m just thinking about how I want you to be happy. I want you to be nothing fucking at all like me.”

“You’re a great person, Hank.”

“I’m not. I’m barely a person at all, most days.” Hank picks up his beer but he doesn’t have a taste for it, all of a sudden. Maybe that’s progress – that the alcohol can repulse him instead of reach out like a lifeline. He gets up with a grunt, picks up the empty and the half-full bottle and makes his way through to the kitchen, which is lit by only one dancing candle, the kind in a fancy glass jar. Must have been one of Jess’s – it has a subtle floral scent and probably cost like fifty bucks.

Hank pads quietly past Sumo, snoring heavily with his head on his paws. He tips the remaining beer down the sink, leaves the bottles on the draining board because the recycling is full again – he always forgets to take it out, or maybe he just feels it’s incriminating. He turns to go back to the living room, about ready to go to bed even though it’s probably no later than ten. He can’t stay up talking to Connor anymore - the damn horny android will overcome his extremely reasonable and nobly self-sacrificing objections in about five minutes flat if Hank stays. Connor can use his detective powers for evil when he chooses, putting relentless pressure on Hank’s many weak spots.

Hank startles again, letting out a gasp and a low curse when he sees a dark figure looming in the kitchen doorway.  Connor’s eyes reflect the low light rather eerily – he’s like a damn racoon. “I’m going to put a bell on you,” Hank tells him. “Can’t go around giving a man heart-failure in his own house.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Connor hasn’t moved from the doorway, Hank wonders if he’s blocking the path on purpose.

“Nah,” Hank shakes his head. “It’s still storming out there. The last thing we need is you getting struck by lightning and going all rogue killing machine.”

“That’s not how programming works.” Connor steps forward out of the doorway. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable again. I just wanted to be honest with you about how I feel.”

“Humans can’t handle too much radical honesty, just so you know. Some stuff we like to shove way down deep and never talk about.”

“I’m not sure that’s psychologically healthy.”

“Sure it is. White lies make the world go ’round.”

“I don’t want to lie to you. I find you very attractive and I’d be open to a sexual relationship with you, in addition to our friendship. I don’t anticipate that my feelings will change any time soon. If yours do, you can let me know.”

“Fuck, Connor, you don’t know what it does to me, hearing you say that.”

“What does it do to you?” Connor says this in a quiet, intimate voice, like he knows exactly. Even after he found out about Connor’s radical weekend hobby, Hank never quite imagined he could be seductive – but here he is, standing there in the kitchen and absolutely weaponizing his naïve honesty.

It’s dark and Connor’s mouth is _right there_ – Hank can’t help but kiss him. Connor’s lips are smooth and supple - disconcertingly cool. He smells good – the scent of fabric softener lingering on his borrowed clothes. Connor tugs him closer, a brisk motion like an instructor correcting a dancer’s posture. Hank feels the wet flicker of the tip of his tongue and groans softly. His body rouses from a long slumber, sensation running along the nerve endings like the lights have come back on the grid.

Connor parts his lips and tilts his head back to let Hank in; his mouth is strangely neutral-tasting and the tongue is smooth, lacking the bumps of taste buds. Hank thinks about Connor crouching down at crime scenes, his incorrigible habit of using his own mouth as a real-time processing lab – he pulls back with a hint of alarm. “Hey, you haven’t been eating any weird evidence today, have you?”

“No,” Connor kisses him again and apparently finds his reluctance frustrating. “You don’t have to worry – my oral cavity has a sterilizing function. It’s considerably safer than kissing a human.”

“Like a dishwasher?”

“Like…?” Connor grins against his lips. “Yes, like a dishwasher.”

“Hot.”

Hank grunts as Connor pushes him against the wall, slipping a cool hand up under his t-shirt to clutch at the bare skin of his back through another deep and lingering kiss. One of Hank’s hands is on Connor’s cheek, the other on the curve of his ass. Connor angles himself so his hip is rubbing up against Hank in all the right ways. Hank groans softly, thinking Connor could probably finish him off just like this if he kept it up for a while.

Connor has other ideas, though. “Can I suck you?” he asks, palming Hank through his sweats.

“Holy shit, does anyone ever say no to that from you?”

“Is that a yes?” Connor moves to sink to his knees and Hank grabs his shoulder.

“Not here!”

“Why not?”

“What if Sumo wakes up?”

“He’s a dog, Hank. He won’t care what we’re doing.”

“Ok, but you know how he is, sticking his big slobbery face in everything.”

Hank can’t see Connor’s facial expression clearly in the dark, but he can predict it’s that narrow look Connor gets when he’s impatient. “Can we go to your bedroom, then?”

“Yeah.” Connor moves to go and Hank reaches out to grasp his wrist. “Con, listen – this has to be a one-time deal, okay? Because I can’t be casual – I’m not a casual guy, not about this.”

“Just one time,” Connor agrees, far too readily for Hanks’ liking. “To satisfy our curiosity.”

“Ok,” Hank tries to sound calm and authoritative, not like a guy who has an erection tenting the front of his pants and who is feeling intimidated by his younger partner’s considerable sexual experience. “Let me just… let me put out the lights. The last thing we need is the damn dog starting a house fire if he decides to go walkabout.”

“Ok,” Connor says – the tone is a little amused and indulgent, as if he knows Hank is stalling for time.

Hank goes around the kitchen and living room extinguishing the candles dotted about, licking his fingertips and pinching out the flames with a hiss to avoid setting off the smoke alarm. He swears under his breath as the last candle burns his fingertips, then finds that the room is absolutely pitch dark and he can no longer tell where he is in relation to the door.

“Uh, little help here?” he calls out. As he turns his head he catches a blur of orange light that hovers like a firefly.

“I’m here,” Connor says, startling Hank with how close he is. A hand wraps around Hank’s upper arm and Connor tugs gently but insistently to guide him through to the bedroom.

Hank grunts when his knees hit the bed and he goes down with a gasp and chuckle onto the mattress. “Bet I look pretty funny to you in the dark.”

“The lack of eye contact is strange. Can I undress you?”

“Yeah, though it’s not really fair. I mean, I can’t see you.” Hank sits up to assist as Connor drags his t-shirt up over his head.

“You can touch me, though. Anywhere you like.”

Hank lifts his hips as Connor tugs down his sweats and underwear in one rough, efficient movement. “I won’t even be able to take a look at that award-winning dick of yours.”

There comes the sound of more fabric hitting the bedroom floor as Connor strips off his own clothing. “I’ll go and get the flashlight if you really want to see it.”

 Hank laughs. “Thanks bud, but I think that might ruin the mood a little.”

The bed creaks as Connor climbs on top of him and they resume kissing. Hank touches his shoulders and bare chest. His skin is cool all over, and his body has no give to it, no underlying squish or jiggle like a human would have – he is literally sculpted, and the skin-covering has only a very slight cushioning effect.

“Do you find my skin temperature unpleasant?” Connor asks, perhaps reading Hank’s hesitation. “I don’t have the ability to warm it internally, but it does retain heat well.”

“So the more I play with you the hotter you get?”

“Yes. Usually there are more hands on me, so it heats up quickly.”

“Uh,” Hank instantly imagines Connor at the centre of a circle of nude bodies, being caressed by hands of all different sizes and skin tones. “Let’s get under the covers – that’ll warm things up faster.”

Connor assists in rolling Hank to one side and tugs the blankets out from beneath him. Hank is grateful for the covering and pulls the sheets up over them both, getting his bearings on Connor’s body again by stroking his shoulders and neck. He rubs his thumb over Connor’s lips, finding them warm and realizing that the heat has come from his own mouth. That’s an exciting thought, somehow, and he kisses Connor again and again, rubbing their lips together with a quiet sigh.

Connor breaks away from the kissing and Hank feels him shift down the bed, then there are firm hands gripping his hips. Hank swears as he feels Connor’s mouth open around the head of his dick. Hank’s erection has flagged a little in the coolness of the room and the sudden intensity of Connor sucking on it is a little much. “Fuck, haven’t you ever heard of foreplay?”

“Oral sex _is_ considered foreplay,” Connor tells him matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, well, take it easy – come back up here and make out with me a while. Unless you got somewhere you got to be?”

“No,” Connor sounds offended. “I just thought you’d like it.”

“I like getting my dick sucked plenty. Just want to take my time, that’s all.”

Connor comes back up to kiss him, even seems to relax into it this time. Hank sighs against his mouth; luxuriates in being able to get his hands all over that cool, perfectly formed body while Connor gropes him back. If he’s honest he doesn’t love having quite so much attention given to his tits, belly and love-handles, especially given that Connor can see in the dark and he can’t.

“Hey, go easy there – I’m not a stress-ball,” he says after one particularly amorous squeeze.

“I’m sorry – I’m just excited.”

“Excited by what?”

“How you look and feel. Can I touch your scars?”

Hank rolls his eyes in the dark. “Yeah, knock yourself out.”

Connor slides down the bed and presses his face to Hank’s stomach, nuzzling and stroking. Hank can feel his fingers tracing the scar left by a bullet that grazed his side, before sliding back around to grip the front of his belly where the flesh is soft and abundant.

Hank breathes in sharply. “Chubby-chaser, huh?”

“What?”

“You like, y’know, big guys – something to hold on to.”

Connor makes a considering sound. “There’s no way to say this without sounding creepy, but I very much enjoy the texture of human flesh. I love how soft and changeable it is, the way you carry around all these indelible marks.”

“You’re right, Con, that does sound really fucking creepy.”

“I know,” Connor sounds glum. “Do you like to be licked? I have a lot of sensors in my mouth and it’s interesting for me, but I’ve had mixed responses.”

Hank laughs, rubbing his hand over his face as he imagines Connor’s painfully earnest expression. “Sure, knock yourself out – just not the feet. Had an ex who was way into toe-sucking and it always freaked me the fuck out. One time I accidentally kicked him in the face so y’know – consider yourself warned.”

“Got it,” Connor says before raising himself over Hank and nuzzling his armpit.

Hank lets out a squawk when the tongue comes out to lick him there and then laughs. “Fucking pervert androids!”

Connor gropes and licks him extensively – he mouths at Hank’s nipples, runs the tip of his tongue over the lines of the chest tattoo and the one on his thigh. Without being able to see anything it’s very strange and intense – Hank’s eyes start to create colours and shapes like he’s tripping out in a sensory deprivation tank.

“Alright, c’mon, let me return the favour some.” Hank pushes Connor’s shoulder until he goes over on his back, strokes his chest and hopes he’s in the right ballpark when he leans down to suck his nipples. He wonders if Connor has extra sensors there, or if it’s just the same amount of sensation as if Hank licked any other part of his body. The question seems to be answered when Connor threads his fingers through Hank’s hair and starts to moan. Not a soft, sighing sound either – a loud, distinctly pornographic one.

Intrigued, Hank wraps his hand around Connor’s dick and gives it a slow stroke. It does feel really nice in his hand – maybe six or seven inches and with a subtle upward curve. Hank rubs his thumb over the glans – no foreskin, he wonders if that’s an option or maybe they don’t have the technology yet. Connor bucks up into his hand and lets out a loud, trailing groan. Hank starts to feel suspicious – he repeats the motion and gets exactly the same sound, like it’s a tape loop.

Hank stills his hand and asks: “hey uh, Debbie-Does-Detroit – what’s with all the moaning?”

“What do you mean?” Connor says this in a totally normal voice, not breathless or distracted.

“Kinda loud and… repetitive.”

“Don’t you like it? My other partners seemed to. I was informed it was off-putting to be too quiet.”

“So it’s fake?”

“I’m doing it in response to a stimulus, just like a human would,” Connor sounds offended again.

“I don’t think it’s the same thing.”

“Does it matter? This is a very highly-rated software. It won awards.”

“In what, _Android-Fucker Monthly_?”

“Hank, you’re making me feel self-conscious!” He feels Connor pull away, rolling over on his side.

“Aww, honey, no. C’mere, I’m sorry.” Hank wraps himself around Connor from behind and kisses his shoulder. “You moan as much as you want to. Just don’t do it because you’re putting on some performance for me. Y’know… relax, go with the flow.”

“But I can’t do that!” Connor blurts out. “You keep telling me to be spontaneous, but I’m not human. I don’t have a lizard hind-brain and millions of years of evolution telling me how to fuck. I only have instructions, likely scenarios–”

“Shh, sweetheart, c’mere. I’m sorry, ok?” Hank feels Connor turn in his arms to face him. He reaches out, trailing his fingertips up the side of Connor’s neck, touching his jaw and the outline of his lips. “Wish I could see your gorgeous face right now.”

“I thought you said it was goofy.”

“It’s a little goofy, in a good way.”

“Oh, that was a _compliment_?”

Hank chuckles, kisses him. “There you go. So c’mon – tell me how this goes down in your fantasies.”

“Preconstructions.”

“Sure.” Hank trails his hand down Connor’s side; gets a nice, gentle grip around his dick again and squeezes.  

“There were a number of scenarios,” Connor continues, as if Hank isn’t jerking him off slowly. “The one with the highest probability of success begins with me giving you oral sex.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then I would climb on top of you and have you penetrate me while I ride you. Then I would lie bent over the mattress and have you take me from behind from a standing position. Then I would lie on my back and elevate my hips and have you penetrate me again so you could pull out and come on my chest, which is my preference.”

“Sounds like a full work-out. What’s wrong with this – what we’re doing now? You like this, right?”

“Your hand on me? Yes, it’s nice.”

“Ok then – take it easy, stud. Here, let’s make things go a little smoother.” Hank rolls over and pats along the bedside table until he finds the handle of the drawer. He pulls it open and rummages inside for the lotion. He fits himself back against Connor and coats both their dicks in a layer of the cool, slippery liquid, stroking them both in one hand. Connor’s dick is still a little cool against Hank’s and the contrast is exciting.

Connor reaches over him, grabbing for the bottle on the table. “That’s not this product’s intended use,” he informs Hank.

“Yeah well, lube’s under the bed somewhere. You’re slumming it tonight.”

He hears Connor uncapping the lotion and a cool, moist hand pushes his out of the way to fit itself around Hank’s dick. Hank groans softly as Connor begins to stroke him back; he puts in some effort into matching the movements on Connor and the effect is a little weird – like jerking himself off at a remove. He kisses and nuzzles at Connor’s throat but Connor remains silent, the only sign of his enjoyment the periodic tensing of his abdominal muscles and increasing speed of his hand on Hank’s dick.

“You’ve gone pretty quiet there,” Hank observes. “Everything ok? Is your sex-nav recalculating or something?”

“I disabled the erotic vocalization software, since you hate it so much.”

“I don’t hate it, exactly, it’s just kind of… a lot. Maybe it’s better if you just tell me in words.”

“It’s good, I like it – ah, Hank!” Connor lifts his head from the pillow; the light of his LED illuminates his temple and cheek in an amber glow, making him look like an abstract painting on a black canvas.

“That’s it sweetheart, you just relax and take what you need. Let me make you feel good.”

Connor’s whole body tenses and there is s spill of something cool and wet over Hank’s belly.

“Yeah,” Hank says, “that’s it, come for me, baby.”

Connor shudders until Hank is a little concerned he might be malfunctioning. He strokes Connor’s hair; kisses his cheek and the side of his mouth in between murmuring more soothing nonsense. “That’s it, sweetheart – you done? Feel good?”

Hank lets go of Connor’s dick, not wanting to overstimulate him, and strokes his hip and thigh. “You doing ok there, Con?”

“Yes, I’m ok. Thank-you for that.”

Hank chuckles at his strained politeness. “You’re fuckin’ welcome.” He rolls onto his back and puts an arm around Connor, ruffling his hair. The strands of it feel thicker and smoother than a human’s – more like a doll’s.

“You didn’t come yet,” Connor says, squeezing Hank’s dick around the base and making him grunt.

“Yeah, well, there’s no rush. Take a minute to catch your breath, y’know, figuratively.” He dabbles his fingers in the wet substance coating his stomach, rubbing finger and thumb together to find the texture viscous but not as thick as semen. It doesn’t smell of anything. “Hey what is this stuff – can I taste it?”

“Yes. It’s a plasma filtered from the blue blood, same as my saliva. It’s not harmful to humans, though I wouldn’t recommend consuming large amounts of it.”

Hank licks his fingertip – he’s as bad as the damn android, apparently. It tastes a lot like lube.

Connor nuzzles his chest and rubs his hand over Hank’s belly before reaching down to tease his cock again. “Can I please suck you now?”

“Well, shit, I never realised this was such a treat for you.”

“I told you, a lot of my sensors are in my mouth.”

“An android with an oral fixation, huh? Bet you’re a lot of people’s wet dream.”

“I hope I’m yours, at least.”

“You know you are.”

He can feel Connor smile against the side of his stomach. “I’m going to turn the vocalizations back on. I’ve been told they feel very good during oral sex.”

Hank realises that this is Connor-speak for ‘I’m going to moan a lot around your dick’ and feels himself give a tell-tale twitch in Connor’s hand. “Yeah, uh – my dick hasn’t won any beauty contests lately, but knock yourself out.”

“I like your penis,” Connor says still stroking him. “It’s a good shape. I prefer them smaller and thick at the base.”

Hank groans his way into a laugh. “I mean, would it kill you to flatter me a little?”

“I thought I was.”

“Jesus… Connor, you can’t just tell a guy he has a small dick. Unless, y’know, it’s some kind of kinky humiliation thing, which I want to state for the record I am not into.”

“It feels nice in my hand,” Connor continues blithely. “It looks very nice curving up under your belly. I like the way your foreskin moves.”

“Connor… no. You’re not making it better.”

“But I really have no interest in large penises. My anal sensors are mostly around the entrance so additional length it doesn’t benefit me in any way.”

“Good to know you’re not a size queen, I guess.”

“Ok, I’m going to suck you now. Feel free to move and grip my hair – I don’t breathe or have a gag reflex. Just let me know when you’re close.”

“Sure thing.” The way Connor delivers this little speech makes Hank suspect it’s something he has said before. Hank tries to resist a mental image of men lining up to fuck Connor’s face, but it presents itself with an irresistible vividness. He groans softly when he feels Connor’s mouth – blood-warm from Hank’s kisses – open around him. He’s incredibly good with his tongue and with varying the firm, sucking pressure. Hank feels himself go boneless with pleasure, sinking into the mattress as Connor puts his recently-acquired skills into practice.

“Fuck, you’re amazing at that,” Hank tells him. “Baby, you’re making me feel so good.”

Connor moans in response, bobbing his head with more enthusiasm. Figures he would be way into praise – fulfilling an objective was basically sex to him before he got the genital hardware. The sounds he makes are less distracting now that they are muffled by Hank’s dick and it _feels_ incredible – whatever produces Connor’s voice vibrates with low sounds just like a human’s would.

Connor’s fingers curl around his balls, holding and rolling them very gently as if he was calibrated exactly for this task. Hank shifts his hips – can’t help but want to go deeper into that slick, warm mouth. Connor moans again, approvingly, and Hank reaches down to cup the back of his head, ruffling his hair. “You like this? Wish I could see you right now. Fuck, I bet you look like an angel with my dick in your mouth.”

Connor makes another low, resonant sound and presses in to take Hank deep.

“Ah, baby, that’s it – fuck, I’m close.”

Connor pulls off with a wet sound. He smothers another loud moan against Hank’s hip and he wraps a hand around the base of Hank’s dick to start jerking him quickly. Hank shuts his eyes but the hallucinatory colours keep swirling fast. Gasping, he shifts his hips up and comes.

“Fuck,” he says as he lies back, breathless. “That was incredible.” He reaches out towards Connor’s hovering LED, strokes the hair at his temple. “I didn’t get your eye or something, did I?”

“No, you got my chest and my cheek, thank-you.”

There comes a soft sucking sound and Hank starts to laugh. “You’re licking it, aren’t you?”

“You licked mine.”

“I guess that’s fair. Holy shit, Connor!” Hank collapses down onto the pillows, pushing sweaty strands of hair off his own face. He hears the sound of the bed creaking as Connor climbs off it and soft footsteps making his way to the bathroom followed by the sound of running water. Hank dozes off for a minute until he is rudely awoken by something warm and damp dragging across his stomach. He twitches and lets out a groan of confusion before realising the mystery object assaulting him is, in fact, a wash cloth. He can see Connor’s LED, still stuck on orange, hovering above him like a miniature UFO. Connor turns and the light zips away, leaving an after-image behind.

He hears Connor’s light footsteps again and the creak of the laundry room door. “What are you doing out there?” Hank calls, raising himself on one elbow.

“Retrieving my clothes,” Connor calls back. “Getting dressed.”

“What for?”

“Oh!” Connor sounds surprised. The footsteps return and the pilot light reappears as Connor sticks his head around the bedroom door. “Did you want to go again?”

Hank lets out a low note of amusement. “Maybe if I were thirty years younger, sure. I was thinking more along the lines of cuddling a little – unless you’re against that.”

“I’m not against it,” Connor sounds thoughtful. “I’ve just never been asked before.”

“What do you usually do after sex – shake hands and exchange business cards?”

“No. Generally I just shower and leave.”

“Sounds efficient.” Hank hears the bedclothes rustle and feels the mattress shift as Connor climbs into bed next to him.

“What should I do?”

Hank wants to make a quip, but he finds he doesn’t have it in him to make Connor feel bad about not knowing how to cuddle. “Come here, just wriggle yourself right up against me.” Hank puts his arm around Connor’s shoulders and waits for him to settle into place, fitted against his side. “You good?”

“Yes. What now?”

“Just relax. Or, you know – whatever it is you do that’s like relaxing.”

“That’s… difficult right now. Usually I would back up information and download new updates.”

“Still cut off, huh? This is how the rest of us feel all the time, y’know – just trapped with our own dumbass thoughts.”

“Hmm.”

“Hey, listen to that rain,” Hank kisses his forehead, rests his cheek against Connor’s temple. “Nice, huh? Being inside on a night like this. Makes you feel small and safe.”

“Sounds like static.”

“Yeah.”

In the warm lull that follows, Hank starts to doze off. He wonders, sleepily, how Connor feels – do his levels of alertness ever dip, or is he always cursed to be wide awake?

“Hank?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Why did you break up with your wife?”

“Hey, we’re not playing Truth or Dare anymore – you can’t just hit me with questions like that out of the fuckin’ blue.”

“Sorry. Can I ask you a personal question, Hank?”

Hank chuckles. “Ok smart-ass. Listen, for your information, she dumped me and I can’t say I blame her.”

“Why though?”

“What’s it to you, exactly?”

“I told you, I don’t understand romantic relationships very well. I’d like to know more.”

Hank sighs, shifting to get more comfortable. He strokes Connor’s shoulder with his fingertips. “Someone told me one time that the reason you get together with someone is also the reason you break up. Like at first you love that they’re ‘fun-loving and spontaneous’, then later you hate that they’re ‘immature.’ I guess it was like that.”

“What was your reason?”

Hank swallows, lets out a slow breath. “Jess and I were both very independent, both workaholics, we liked that about each other. She was forty when we met and she wanted a kid – she’d been with a lot of uncertain guys, waited around for them to make their minds up about her, about fatherhood. She thought they were fuckin’ timewasters and I agreed. We rushed into it, got married, had Cole. We muddled along together ok. Then we didn’t have Cole and there just wasn’t enough to hold us together. She disappeared into her job and I disappeared into a bottle. Independence, you see – pig-headedness maybe, that’s what it was in the end. Neither of us had any fuckin’ idea how to ask for help, how to need someone, or be needed.”

Connor is quiet for a while – processing, no doubt. Then he says: “I think I can relate to that, in a way. I wasn’t built for companionship, or to need other people. I was only made to manipulate them.”

“Jesus, Connor, why would you say something like that about yourself?”

“It’s true. I’m designed to integrate with humans, but only in order to facilitate my missions. I wasn’t ever supposed to get attached.”

In the darkness, Hank makes an emphatic gesture. “But isn’t that what deviancy was supposed to give you – the ability to like… change yourself, to be whatever you want to be?”

“There are still limits to our self-determination. Like a human, I have certain traits, certain abilities, and not others. You couldn’t wake up tomorrow and decide to become a professional ballet dancer, could you?”

“Nah, not with my knees. But I can still learn from all my shitty mistakes. Maybe the next time I’m lucky enough to have someone want to date me I won’t try to hide all my feelings from them. It’s possible – I hear miracles do happen.” Hank yawns, jaw stretching so wide it twinges. “Hey, much as I’m enjoying this weird pillow talk, I’m about to pass out. Are we… going to be ok tomorrow?”

“You mean as friends?”

“Yeah. You want to be friends, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good,” Hank says. “Great.”

He falls asleep with Connor next to him but when he wakes up he is alone and all the lights are on. The power must have come back on after Connor left. The only sign of him is the neatly folded shirt and boxers left on the dresser.

It feels eerie, somehow – waking up, disorientated, in a fully-lit house is something that hasn’t happened to Hank since he quit serious drinking. He rubs his eyes and looks at the clock – four AM. He climbs out of bed and shuffles around the house turning off the lights. Sumo has fresh water in his bowl and he is gnawing on a chew-stick.

“Your buddy give you that, huh?” Hank says, crouching down to rub the thick fur around the St Bernard’s neck. “He threw me a bone too, y’know.”

Sumo whines and thumps his tail.

“Yeah,” says Hank. “But what can you do?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now going to be 4 chapters long because... reasons.
> 
> Heads up for a brief description (after the fact) of a sexcapade gone wrong in this chapter (plus Connor's reaction to the same).

The next week is tough. Hank is put on Reed’s unfinished cases, all of them lingering on the brink of going cold – plus the case files are a mess. He has to drag his ass all over town re-interviewing witnesses, most of them ice-heads with short attention spans and even shorter memories.

The rookie, Ramirez, is a five-foot-nothing woman in her late twenties who favours all-black clothing and wears her long, dark hair in a tight braid. She doesn’t talk much, which should be refreshing given that Connor was like a damn toddler with his relentless questions, but instead it puts Hank on edge. He gets the impression from Ramirez’s facial expressions that she frequently disagrees with his approach but chooses not to comment. He finds that irritating – _if you think I’m a real dumbass, at least have the decency to say so_ , he wants to tell her. But he’s the veteran here, it’s not about him. He is the one with the authority and experience (allegedly); he should be considering her feelings, not the other way around.

The simple truth of it is that Hank has always had a tough time with people with no sense of humour. Even Connor, overly literal as he is, has a sassy streak and a dry, observational wit. Ramirez gives him nothing. It would be shitty of him to tell her to smile and loosen up a little, but he privately wishes she would. _This shit’s easier if people like you_ , is what he wants to say, or: _would it really kill you to laugh at the dumb office jokes and swing by the bar for a drink at quitting time? To act like you’re part of something?_ But what does he know about being likeable, after all? Maybe four years ago, not now. He used to be sociable – used to smile and clap people’s shoulders, keep up an endless, engaging patter and thrive off company. When he reaches for conversation now it’s often just… not there; relearning social interaction feels as slow, painful and frustrating as trying to regain fine motor skills after a stroke.  

It’s not Ramirez’s fault he misses Connor. Being partners is always like that – you butt heads and rub each other the wrong way until somehow you start to function, to fill in each other’s gaps. Connor’s bull-headed independence used to piss Hank off no end – to turn around and find him gobbling some congealed gunk off the floor; or getting shoved aside as Connor took off to go vaulting over rooftops in relentless pursuit of a suspect – but now Hank expects it.  He turns around to find Ramirez standing there waiting for him to tell her the plan of action, hands in the pockets of her bomber jacket and a deeply unimpressed look on her face, and he thinks _well shit_ _– there’s a puddle of blood right there and you’re not even going to lick it?_

Everything feels stone-age slow now that he has to wait for forensics reports and look up the criminal records of suspects he meets. The damn android was so efficient that, without realising it, Hank came to rely on him and to take his enhanced abilities for granted. Having a human partner now feels like being hobbled. Hank realises with some horror that this must be how Connor felt all the time: unfairly dragged down by the limitations of someone who needs to eat, sleep, and file paperwork manually.

Plus, only now that Connor is no longer his partner does Hank realise how casual and last-minute most of their socializing was. It was easy to clap Connor on his shoulder at the end of a long day or night and suggest they swing by the bar or stop by Hank’s house. Connor wouldn’t always say yes – sometimes he had another commitment, some social event he couldn’t cancel – but more often than not it was a yes.

Now Hank barely sees him, except for brief glances across the bullpen; Connor in the middle of a flotilla of PCs and PMs, giving Hank a sheepish wave or dorky thumbs up as he passes. If Hank wants to see him he’ll have to make a damn appointment, it seems, but every time he goes to send a message he is overcome with self-consciousness. Maybe Connor has a better offer that night; maybe he doesn’t want to watch a basketball game; maybe it’ll seem like Hank’s trying too hard.

Then one morning a few days into their separation, Hank finds a post-it note stuck on his console bearing a message in perfectly uniform android handwriting: _Park this Sunday at ten? I miss Sumo (and you). – C_

“Fucker thinks he’s charming,” Hank mutters to himself, grinning so wide his face hurts. Ramirez looks up quizzically and then goes back to her typing without a word.

*~*~*

Sumo spots Connor before Hank does, letting out one of his _basso profundo_ barks and propelling his heavy body into a run.

Connor is standing under a sycamore tree looking up at the canopy of fall leaves in red, yellow and brown. He’s wearing new clothes (at least, as far as Hank knows, they’re new): a long coat made of grey wool and under it a thick sweater with a rope pattern and some very nicely fitted jeans. He has his hands in his coat pockets and looks almost winsome, like he’s posing for an album cover. At the sound of Sumo’s bark he turns and his expression goes from blank into a smile.

He bends down to give Sumo a vigorous scratch around his neck, burying his fingers in the thick fur, then brings a brightly-coloured something out of his coat pocket and offers it to Sumo, who takes I from his hand and chomps it between his jaws, forcing out a squeaky sound.

Sumo frisks away as Connor reaches for him again and trots off proudly with his prize, chewing the toy vigorously to force out more squeaks.

“Where’s my present?” Hank asks, holding his arms out from his body.

Connor grins and comes forward to catch him in a hug. Hank returns it eagerly, feeling like he hasn’t seen Connor in months (though, in reality, it’s been less than a week). Just as Hank thinks Connor is about to pull back he squeezes tighter. “Yeah,” Hank tells him quietly, “I fuckin’ missed you too.”

Once the hug finally ends, Connor looks sheepish. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks at his shoes.

“What’s with the new get-up?” Hank prompts.

“Oh,” Connor blinks and looks up. “I suppose I felt a little foolish going to all my leisure activities in a suit and tie. Does it look stupid?”

“You look like you just stepped right out of a Sears catalogue.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

Hank smiles. “You look great, Con.”

“Thank-you. I made this sweater myself, it’s cable knit.”

“Hey, maybe I could use your help with my wardrobe. About time I had a change.”

Connor looks him over. “Your clothes are… distinctive.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“No, simply an observation.”

Hank chuckles. “You little shit.”

They walk over to a bench and sit down. Sumo shambles over and drops his new toy at Hank’s feet. It’s a cartoonish rubber lamb chop. Hank bends over and takes it by the least drool-soaked corner, flinging it off among the trees for the dog to fetch. Sumo breaks into a slow canter, snuffles around in the leaves with his tail wagging, then returns, dropping the toy again and sitting himself down between Hank and Connor’s feet. Connor puts his hands in the dog’s mane and scratches again.

Hank wants pretty badly to put an arm around Connor – _this is where you belong_ , he wants to say, _right here with me. Come home to my place and put all your dorky handmade sweaters in my dresser; lie on the couch and let me stroke your finely-crafted leg hair._ Instead he says: “So how’s the task force going?”

Connor’s left eyebrow twitches and faint frown lines appear. “It’s… challenging.”

“Sounds like Connor-speak for ‘terrible’.”

“Did you know that deviated androids are very bad at following orders?”

Hank raises a hand to his mouth in a theatrical expression of shock. “No, _really_?”

“I understand: they’re negotiating a new way of living; it’s complicated. And I’m not… used to being in a position of authority. I was designed to be unobtrusive, but autonomous – teamwork doesn’t come easily to me, either.”

“I bet you’re giving it your best shot, though.”

“Yes.” Connor blinks, looking troubled. “The other problem is that Captain Fowler has put two human officers on the team. He thinks it important it should be a mixed-species operation. While I can see his logic, it does make things more difficult.”

“Let me guess, these two assholes are not real thrilled to be taking orders from an android?”

“They are not.”

“Who’d you get stuck with?”

“Novak and O’Brien.”

“Yeah, not exactly the best and brightest.” Hank bumps Connor with his elbow. “Listen, if they get out of hand, let me know. I can have a nice friendly talk with them – and with Fowler.”

“I appreciate the offer, Hank. How’s your new partner?”

“Quiet type, thinks I’m an asshole.”

“How do you know she thinks that?”

“She’s got some real eloquent looks.”

“Maybe you’re just being paranoid.”

“Maybe,” Hank sighs, wrapping his coat tighter around himself against the chill. “Or maybe being a wash-out drunk isn’t something you get to bounce back from just because you’ve taken to showing up on time five days a week.”

“You’re very hard on yourself, Hank. Grief is an extremely powerful emotion. Anyone who knows what you went through would find your lapse… understandable.”

“‘Lapse’, huh? That’s a real fuckin’ polite way to put it.” Hank watches Connor’s cheek twitch. “Listen, I appreciate you saying all that. I’m… ok. Better than I have been in a long time, at least.”

“I’m glad,” Connor glances back at him. “I wondered if you were angry with me.”

Hank turns to face Connor, resting the crook of his arm on the back of the bench. “Why the hell would I be angry with you?”

Connor brings his eyebrows together, looking down at where his hand is moving in Sumo’s fur. The sleeve of his nice new coat is getting pretty thickly covered in strands of brown and white hair. “I left without waking you. You looked peaceful, and also I thought… maybe it’s best to have a clean break in the situation.”

“Hey,” Hank says in a stern tone. When Connor looks up he tells him: “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so. I felt… awkward about it.”

“Yeah, that’s the way it goes with one-night stands.” Hank sighs, scratches his cheek self-consciously. “Listen, we don’t gotta talk about that, or how shitty work is. What’s new with you? You still enjoying all your extracurriculars?”

“Yes. My pottery course finished, though. I’m going to miss that.”

“What you going to do with your Wednesday nights now?”

“I’m not sure, exactly.” Connor looks off into the distance, brow furrowed. “I think I’d like to try dating.”

“Wait – _what_? Dating who exactly?”

“I’ve been engaging in online communication with a few different people – androids, in fact. I thought I should start with androids, since their emotional responses are less complex.”

“Are there like… android dating apps?”

“Yes, I’ll show you – take out your phone.”

Hank complies and Connor pulls back the skin of his finger to touch the screen, bypassing Hank’s flimsy password lock. He downloads and opens a very basic-looking app that seems like nothing but white text on a dark grey screen. Maybe it looks different when you’re running it in your brain instead of on a shitty five-year-old phone with a cracked screen.

“They don’t have pictures?” Hank asks, squinting at the reams of text passing by as Connor scrolls.

“They don’t need to. They list their model numbers.”

“What does this mean?” Hank points. “The strings of letters and numbers?”

“Oh, they’re standard abbreviations about fittings and preferences. This one, for example: no genitals, not interested in sexual contact but seeking other forms of physical intimacy. This one: no genitals but interested in oral sex. This one doesn’t want any kind of physical contact beyond hand interface. This one has vaginal, anal and penile fittings and is interested in many kinds of sexual contact – but not kissing.”

Hank shrugs one shoulder. “You gotta draw the line somewhere, I guess. So what’s on your profile?”

Connor gives him a blank look that Hank recognises as fake-serious. “Let’s just say it’s a long list.”

Hank laughs. “Anyone caught your eye on here?”

“The algorithm has suggested some compatible matches.”

“Free-loving bots like yourself?”

“I suppose. I’m nervous though, about the dating.”

“How come?”

“What if we don’t have anything to say to one another?”

“Yeah,” Hank concedes, “that can happen.”

“There’s also the question of an activity. We don’t eat or drink, so that’s a big section of the traditional dating activities off the table. I thought maybe… a museum? But we might just end up reciting the catalogue to each other.”

“You’re uh, kinda hung up on the negatives here, Con. Maybe you’ll really click with someone, who knows?”

“Maybe,” Connor sounds dubious. He sits back, taking his hand out of Sumo’s fur. The dog turns around and puts his head on Connor’s knee, begging for more attention until Connor relents and strokes his ears. “What about you? You’ve said that you’re romantic, so why don’t you date?”

“Well until recently I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a catch.” Hank rubs the back of his neck and looks up and the grey sky. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m too old for all the hoopla. Having to dress up nice and smile and make small talk with a stranger – pretend you’re someone who has their shit together.”

“The dating guides I have read recommend you ‘just be yourself’.”

“Ha!” Hank raises his eyebrows. “That’s a good one.”

Connor gives him one of those sweet, earnest looks that make Hank feel like he’s about to go into cardiac arrest. “I like your personality, Hank. I assume there are other people who will, too. You are funny and generous and loyal. You are also a considerate sexual partner.”

Hank almost blurts out: _if you like me so much, why aren’t we dating?_ but he bites his tongue. _Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to_. Besides, the way Connor tells it, ‘dating’ is a fun pastime, something he intends to try on and discard if it doesn’t fit. It _should_ be that way for him – he’s young and adventurous, it’s only right that he should be out exploring the world. He definitely should be spending more time with his own kind, ‘interfacing’ (whatever that is) and discussing the latest line in genital attachments – not humouring a bitter old man whose only interests are basketball and complaining.

“I’ll help you, if you want,” Connor says.

Hank blinks, having lost the thread of their conversation. “With what?”

“Setting up a profile. Updating your wardrobe.”

“You mean like _Robo Eye for The Old Guy_?”

“I don’t understand that reference.” Connor looks up, apparently searching the network. “Oh, I see! Yes, something like that. Maybe we could double-date – that would be fun.”

Hank imagines himself sitting next to a very uncomfortable human partner, looking across a diner table at Connor and another identically smiling android. It’s so like a scenario from an eighties sitcom he can almost hear the tinny laugh-track.

“I don’t know, Con. I’m not sure I’m ready to plunge back into the dating pool.”

“Why not?”

 _Because I’m in love with you, asshole_. Hank sighs, “jeez, I don’t know! I’m just not.”

“There’s nothing to be lost by meeting some new people, that’s the way I look at it.”

“What did I tell you about being so damn positive all the time?”

“I’m not – I’m objective and neutral.” 

“You’re a fuckin’ Pollyanna is what you are. C’mon,” Hank gets to his feet and jerks his chin towards the dog, who is still sitting at Connor’s feet and looking at him adoringly, big tongue lolling. “Let’s give this guy a few more turns around the block.” Hank whistles and pats his thigh. “Sumo, come on, boy!”  

Sumo comes down with a case of selective deafness and just sits there, letting Connor keep petting him. Connor grins at Hank and leans down to pick up the toy at Sumo’s feet. He tosses it along the path and urges “go get it, Sumo!”

Sumo heaves himself up with a loud woof and bounds off to retrieve the rubber lamb chop. He throws his head back and turns the toy in his jaws, squeaking it triumphantly.

“Good dog!” Connor calls out. He looks just as pleased with himself as Sumo does.

*~*~*

Hank finishes up trimming his beard and washes the stray hairs down the sink. He turns his face from side to side to observe the effect, combing the edges down with his fingers. _Better than nothing_ is his conclusion.

With a towel wrapped around his hips, Hank takes a step back to look at himself in a mirror that is still blurry with condensation around the edges. He rubs a hand over his belly, fingers lingering over the purple scar tissue that seemed to fascinate Connor.

He takes stock: he’s chubby, his chest hair is grey, and the tattoo beneath is grainy and faded. His reflex is to react with disappointment and disgust, to blame himself ( _you’re past it, you’ve let yourself go_ ), but then Hank thinks: _what if it doesn’t mean anything?_

Sure, his body doesn’t conform to the societal ideal for a man – the armour-like abs that convey youth, fitness, self-discipline – but it doesn’t follow that Hank has to hate it. The self-loathing is a conditioned response, it’s not based on any fact about his body – which functions pretty well, all things considered. Connor doesn’t experience disgust when he looks at aging human bodies – all Connor sees when he looks at Hank is the softness and malleability of flesh, features he considers desirable.

What if Hank’s soft belly and grey hair don’t mean failure? What if his body is just an ordinary one, one variation out of possible hundreds? Now that it has occurred to him, the thought seems obvious, but Hank is left feeling dizzy and disoriented for a moment, as if he has taken off a pair of goggles he has been wearing, unknowingly, for all his life, and suddenly been granted a different perspective.

Still feeling lightheaded from all this possibility, Hank crosses the hallway to his bedroom and gets dressed in one of the new button-down shirts he bought that afternoon. It has a less garish pattern than the ones he generally favours as a sort of visual ‘fuck you.’ The new shirt is white with a pale blue pinstripe. He puts on jeans and tucks in his shirt tails, turning to look at himself in the closet mirror – he looks bland, approachable; like he’s making an effort, but not too much.

Hank picks up his phone from the nightstand and swipes through to the dating app to check the details of the meet-up – a causal dining restaurant downtown. The woman’s name is Marie; in her profile picture she’s sitting on some backyard decking with her arm around a panting yellow Labrador. She’s forty-eight, she has two kids in their mid-to-late teens. She likes cooking, yoga, and mystery novels and Hank’s pretty sure she has a ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ decal somewhere in her home and maybe a fridge magnet that says ‘is it wine o’clock yet?’. In other words, she’s a completely normal human being and he has no fucking idea what to say to her.

Hank gives himself one last stern look in the mirror and heads out, past Sumo who has eaten his dinner and retired to bed. “Wish me luck, buddy,” Hank calls. The dog just opens one bloodshot eye and grumbles.

The date isn’t terrible. He’s relieved to find that Marie looks like her profile picture – she hasn’t tried to shave off any years or pounds for the sake of vanity. She’s tall, like him; a little plump; like him; wearing a wrap dress that’s nice but not too dressy. Conversation is a little forced, but pleasant, and she has a sense of humour and a nice laugh. Hank gets the impression she’s wary though, not revealing too much of herself. She looks at him like she’s studying him for a tell – too long in the internet dating game, maybe, and she’s been burned before.

Hank’s suspicion is confirmed when the after-dinner coffee arrives, and Marie finally sits back and demands: “alright, so what’s the catch?”

“What catch?” Hank asks.

“You’re good-looking; good job; divorced a few years,” she counts out the qualities on her fingers. “Why are you still on the shelf?” She gives him the kind of stern, beady look he would give a teenage suspect in the interview room. “If it’s some weird fetish thing you might as well tell me now.”

He laughs. “Nah, nothing like that. I uh… well you should probably know that my ex and I broke up after we lost our son.”

“Oh shit, shit I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry,” she puts her hands over her mouth.

“Nah, it’s a pretty important thing to know – it’s just, y’know, kinda hard to bring up in casual conversation.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I mean I have two boys and I can’t imagine…” she trails off. “Sorry, that’s a fucking insensitive thing to say.”

“It’s ok,” Hank insists. “There’s no right thing to say about it. It was just one long fuckin’ nightmare. You could say I didn’t have the most healthy grieving process. It was… rough. It’s still more than a little rough, to be honest. But I’m doing better – I want to do better and not just… bury myself.”

“Well you look great,” Marie says. “I mean, considering everything.”

“Thanks,” Hank smiles at the odd, slightly backhanded compliment. He wonders how someone who lost a child almost four years ago is supposed to look – dressed all in black, wailing and tearing their hair out? He reaches for a change of subject: “what about you – how come you’re still on the market, so to speak? I mean, not that you don’t you look great... uh…” _Smooth, Anderson._

“You mean how come I’m not beating them off with a stick?’ C’mon with that,” Marie shakes her head, giving a wry smile as she looks down, long fingernails tapping on the side of the coffee cup. “It’s different for women. Most guys my age are running around after twenty-five year olds, or y’know…” she rolls her eyes, “androids.”

“Yeah, well… don’t know how it’ll work out for them with that last group. I got a friend who’s an android and seems like he’s got his own priorities when it comes to dating.”

Marie looks up, quizzical. “You have an android _friend_?”

“Yeah. He was my partner on the force – interesting guy.”

“I just… I guess I’ve never heard anyone describe an android as their ‘friend’ before. Not an adult, anyway.”

“I used to be pretty y’know…” Hank grimaces, waves a hand, “ _anti-android_ before I worked with him. I guess I blamed them all for shit that’s not their fault, thought they were just machines.”

“Aren’t they?” Marie lowers her voice, looking around conspiratorially. “I know we’re not supposed to say that, because they have sentience and everything. But I can’t help thinking it sometimes – aren’t they just plastic and wires and computer chips, I mean, when you get down to it?”

Hank sits back and sighs. “Yeah, sure, but that’s like saying humans are just bags of meat.”

“I suppose,” Marie turns her coffee cup in its saucer. “My kids always wanted one – back, you know, before. A lot of their friends at school had android housekeepers and to the kids it was like having this… big playmate. Something that looks like an adult and is always there, always has time for them. I felt guilty they didn’t have that – even when their dad was around we were both so busy with work. But I always felt weird about it… didn’t trust the idea. And now with everything that’s happened… I guess it’s unsettling, that they have their own lives and agendas.”

“Androids?”

“Yeah. I never know how to act when I see one. They used to be so quiet, just moving around alongside us, but in their own lane.” She holds her hands up as if anticipating objections. “Not that I miss that – I mean, it was fucked up! But it’s weird now that they’re just… all over the place, trying to make a living like the rest of us.”

“It’s weird for them, too. My friend – Connor, his name is – he’s trying to learn who he wants to be. He tries out all these different hobbies to find out what’s for him. He decided to try dating and I guess that’s what pushed me back into it. I had to say to myself: look, this fuckin’ eleven-month-old android is a better at being a person than you are – you going to stand for that?”

Marie smiles, brushes her hair back in what might be gentle flirtation. “That’s cute that he wants to date. I didn’t know any of them were into that. Do they even feel… y’know, desire?”

“Oh yeah. Not exactly the same way humans do, but some of them really like sex and physical affection. If they’re not made that way to begin with they can upgrade their… “ Hank waggles his eyebrows, “parts.”

“No, seriously?” Marie opens her mouth in a thrilled, scandalised expression.

“Swear to God. If you met Connor he’d be happy to tell you all about his experiences catalogue shopping for genitals. I haven’t been able to teach him the concept of ‘TMI’ yet.”

“He must be excited to try it out – his new ‘accessory’.”

“Oh, he already has. He goes to these…. sex parties.”

“Like… orgies?” Marie’s eyes widen.

“Yeah. He describes it as ‘a collegiate atmosphere’.” Hank chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s all the same kind of thing to him – like book club, pottery class, group sex – just stuff he goes along to and tries out. It’s weirdly inspiring.”

“And these parties, are they with humans or androids?”

“A mix, I think.”

“But aren’t you worried people are taking advantage of him?”

“Nah. He’s not a kid, he knows what he wants and what he doesn’t want – he’s pretty forthright about it.”

“That’s… wow. I had no idea. I’m going to have trouble looking at androids the same way again.”

“Oh yeah. Some of them are real kinky little deviants.” Hank winks and she laughs, covering her mouth with her hand as if the sound shocks her.

*~*~*

Once the coffee is finished they split the check (Hank tries to be a gentleman, but Marie insists – he wonders if that’s a good sign or a bad one). He offers to walk Marie to her car and she accepts – it’s raining again but the streets are busy with Saturday night revellers – young people in their finery dashing between bars and clubs; the women tottering in high heels with their flimsy jackets held over their heads.

“You want to get a drink?” Hank asks.

“Oh, thanks but I really have to get back to the boys. They’re at that age where I only trust them up to a point, you know?”

“Yeah, don’t blame you for that,” Hank notes that she seems awkward, not meeting his eyes, fumbling for her keys in her purse – maybe she thinks he’s going to try to make a move.

“Well… it was real nice meeting you, Marie,” Hank says, hoping to establish he is, in fact a civilised human being and not some skeezeball who thinks dinner and an hour and a half of conversation entitles him to feel up his date. He lingers awkwardly for a second – wondering what the appropriate farewell gesture is. A handshake would be weird, business-like; a hug or a kiss on the cheek might be unwanted. He puts his hands in his pockets and takes a step back as she unlocks her car – an older model electric, not-self-driving.

“It was nice meeting you too, Hank,” she says. “Goodnight.”

“Night!” Hank turns and walks off in the direction of his own car. _Why are you such an awkward motherfucker?_ he asks himself. _The damn android has more social graces than you._

He climbs into his heap and the suspension creaks beneath him. He slams the driver-side door and sighs, resting his hands on the wheel.

It’s not that he wanted something to happen – he didn’t expect this to be any more than baby steps. But feeling so raw and cagey himself he wasn’t prepared for another person (a more ‘normal’ person) to be exactly the same. Maybe that’s what dating is for the middle-aged – trying to keep your own weird emotional shit under wraps while the other person tries to bust you on it; to find out if it’s a deal-breaker before it’s too late. Like a game of fucking Battleships.   

Hank’s phone rings and he fumbles it out of his pocket to see Connor’s name on the screen. He answers and hears music thudding in the background. “Hey Con, what’s up?”

Connor’s voice comes through kind of broken up over the music. “Can you come and pick me up? I’m in Harbortown. I’ll send you the GPS coordinates.”

“Sure, bud. Is something up? Usually you take a cab.”

“The companies are all busy, it’s peak operating time and the shortest ETA was forty-five minutes. I need to leave now, as soon as possible.”

“Hey,” Hank sits up straighter, adjusting the phone against his ear to hear more clearly, “did something happen? Are you ok, are you safe?”

“I’m safe, I’m not hurt. I just want to go home.”

“Ok, listen, I’m not far from you – I’ll be there in ten. Just hang in there and take some deep breaths, y’know – figuratively.”

Hank drives as fast and tactically as he can in the Saturday night traffic; runs a red light and curses to himself as another driver lays on the horn. He pulls up outside a gated community, leaning forward in his seat to squint through the rain at the houses set back from the road. He sends Connor a fumbled, misspelled message to let him know he’s outside.

Connor appears behind the pedestrian gate and puts in a code. Hank leans over to pop the passenger door for him and he slides into the seat. He smells like stale sweat, which is weird given that he doesn’t produce that fluid naturally.

“Thank-you for coming, Hank – I appreciate it,” Connor says this in a normal-sounding voice but when he turns his head, Hank can see that his LED is red.

Hank looks him over, unsure how to begin. _Are you ok?_ seems redundant – the big red warning light should tell him that much. Hank clears his throat. “You wanna tell me what the hell’s going on? I mean… do I need to arrest someone in there, or bang some rich asshole’s head into a wall?”

“No,” Connor looks down, threading his fingers together in his lap. “There’s nothing illegal or unethical happening. I just… I want to leave.”

“Your place?” Hank asks, turning his key in the ignition. Music blares from the speakers and Hank fumbles for the off button.

“Yes, please.”

Hank pulls a u-turn from the kerb and heads towards Connor’s place, a block of apartments which some enterprising landlord quickly refurbished into a hundred identical, shoebox-sized rooms after the rebellion.

“I’m coming up with you,” Hank announces as he pulls into the empty lot behind the building.

“That isn’t necessary,” Connor shakes his head, squeezes his hands together.

“I’d feel better if I did. Just let me hang around until you’re back to blue, ok? Just… fuckin’ humour me, here.” Hank pulls to an abrupt stop, yanking up his parking brake.

“Ok,” Connor nods and unfastens his seatbelt.

They ride the elevator up to the eighteenth floor and Connor uses some absurdly long code to unlock his front door. The space inside is about equal to that of Hank’s college dorm room and makes him feel claustrophobic, but Connor is weirdly proud of the place. He was extremely lucky (as he explained to Hank on a previous tour) to get a window.

There isn’t much in the way of furniture: just one couch (dark grey, modern – probably Ikea) and a coffee table (rectangular, black – doubtlessly of the same origin). The fittings are also minimal: a sink, a shower cubicle, a breakfast bar (though no kitchen), and a closet. The space is not empty, however: the walls are lined with shelves holding all the objects Connor has created or collected in his short life. Those near the window hold an array of miniature cacti and succulents. It seems fitting that an android would like those plants: squat and modular, unfriendly to human hands.

Other shelves contain paperbacks – the latest thrillers, romances and celebrity biographies; required reading as decreed by Connor’s book club (Hank once asked Connor why he doesn’t just download the text files into his brain. and he replied: “but that’s not _reading_ , Hank.”). Still others contain his craft projects – objects made in felted wool, wood, or clay. Taking up a significant portion of the left wall, just across from the couch, sits a large aquarium tank filled with multicoloured pebbles and waving green weeds. There are two tropical fish in it – one smaller and indigo-coloured with a bullet-shaped body; the other larger, a coral orange with spotted fins that fade out to electric blue at the edges.

Connor’s apartment feels entirely different to Hank’s house; cosy, like a den, and this is an impression created not just by its size, but by the care with which the contents of the living space have been curated. The things Hank leaves around are tossed there thoughtlessly – shattered CD jewel cases, take-out containers, empty bottles. Connor’s home contains only those things he has decided are part of himself and which have a place in his life; an allotted shelf-space. It feels intimate, being here – like Connor is showing him everything he’s made of himself.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Connor says. He gestures to the couch. “Make yourself at home.”

Hank sits down with a grunt and a sigh, trying to figure out where to put his legs without kicking over the coffee table or the funny little hand-made pot sitting on top of it. Meanwhile, Connor opens his closet and starts to strip off his clothes, depositing them into a laundry receptacle.

Hank can’t see anything below chest height – the breakfast bar is between them – but he turns his gaze away out of respect and looks instead at the fish tank, which is peaceful and hypnotic.

The shower door creaks and clatters as Connor steps into the stall. The extractor fan starts up a swooshing hum. Hank glances up and sees Connor’s body in silhouette – there’s something about it that makes Hank think of that sci-fi mix of nostalgia and neon – _Blade Runner_ , maybe. He likes things that refuse to depict the future as shiny and sterile because it’s clear to Hank that the human world will always be in chaos. Things are as cramped and as shabby as they have always been, just with androids. 

Connor emerges from the shower and pulls on a towelling robe. His LED has backed down to orange. He comes around the island and sits down next to Hank on the couch and looks at the fish tank, the blue lighting washing out his face.

“So uh… you want to tell me what happened back there?” Hank hopes this sounds neutral and not like an interrogation.

“I’m not sure,” Connor says, still staring ahead, “but I think I had a panic attack. It was a strong and sudden negative emotional response. I felt I had to leave the situation immediately.”

“Huh. You know what set it off?”

Connor nods. “I was doing a scene with someone.” He glances at Hank. “Do you know what that means?”

“Yeah, I know what that means.”

“My partner was a human man, older, muscular physique–”

“A bear, got it.”

“We had negotiated beforehand. He wanted to be in the dominant role. He asked if I was interested in dirty talk and humiliation. I said yes, I had done those things in the past. Confidentially, they don’t excite me particularly – because, as I’ve explained, I don’t experience shame – but I generally enjoy roleplaying. I’m interested in learning the kinds of things other people consider exciting and taboo.”

Hank rubs a hand over his face, tries very hard not to succumb to an extremely vivid mental image. “Ok, so you were doing this… scene and something went wrong?”

“I was performing fellatio on him. I was enjoying it at first – he was tugging my hair, which I like. But he started talking, saying that I’m a slut, just a stupid android slut made to be used–”

“Fucking hell, Connor! I ought to go back and punch his lights out for saying that shit to you.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Connor insists, hands clenching in the towelling fabric. “He stopped immediately at my request and was very apologetic. He didn’t do anything wrong – it was me; I was mistaken about my own comfort levels and what I enjoy.”

“It’s fucked up, though,” Hank insists. “I mean who wants to hear shit like that?”

“Many humans find objectification to be exciting, but I’m an android and well… it’s not the same. I started thinking it was true, that maybe everyone in the room thought that too – that I’m just a thing to be used. I didn’t like it and I didn’t want to be there anymore.”

“That is one-hundred-percent totally fuckin’ understandable.”

“I feel foolish, though,” Connor continues. “I understand that it was just a game, a fiction – he was saying those things because he thought I would be aroused by them. I didn’t have to react so strongly and ruin my partner’s good time.”

“Emotions are like that – inconvenient, unpredictable.”

Connor nods. “Maybe I should stick to the dominant role in future. I’m better at predicting other people’s desires than my own, I think.”

“Maybe you just need a more low-stakes setting, like, y’know, one-on-one.”

“Maybe,” Connor concedes. “My dates haven’t gone very well, unfortunately.”

“How come?”

“I’m not sure. This is going to sound bad, but I find other androids… boring. The way they think makes sense to me, so they never surprise me like humans do. Their lives are so neat and orderly and predictable.”

Hank laughs, looking around at Connor’s stringently curated micro-apartment. “Hey, you got a human fetish there, bud?” he teases, bumping his shoulder against Connor’s to make him smile.

“Don’t kinkshame me, Hank.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Connor looks at him in that head-cocked, evaluating way he does when he’s detecting. “I can’t help but notice that you’re wearing new clothes and clearly you weren’t at home when I called. Did I interrupt something?”

“Nah, you didn’t interrupt. We were finished.”

“How did it go?”

Hank scratches his cheek. “Ok.” Connor gives him a stern look. “Fine! Jesus, what do you want me to say? We had mildly pleasant conversation and mid-price Italian food and we went our separate ways.”

“What was your date’s name?”

“Marie.”

“What’s Marie interested in? Is she pretty?”

“She’s… nice-looking, I guess. She likes… I don’t know – normal shit: wine and yoga and pictures of cats.”

“Are you going to see her again?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“What are you, my mom? We just didn’t click, y’know?”

Connor sits back, tilting his head onto the couch cushions. “We haven’t had very successful evenings.”

“Well mine didn’t involve a panic attack at an orgy, so I got that going for me.”

Connor smiles, lets his head loll to one side. “I’m glad to see you, Hank, even if it wasn’t under the most ideal circumstances.”

“Yeah. You should come see me when it’s not an emergency.”

“I’d like that, too.”

“Gears game next Friday. I’ll be on my couch and there’s a spot for you, if you want to join.”

“I’ll be there.” Connor’s smile turns softer and he puts his hand over Hank’s where it lies on the couch and squeezes. It’s moments like this that Hank suspects Connor is some Terminator-like cyborg sent from the future with the express purpose of making him miserably in love.

“I like your fish,” Hank says lamely. “Did you name them?”

“No, do you think I should?”

“Sure,” Hank points at the shimmering shapes. “Sharky and George.”

“Who are they?”

“The crime-busters of the sea.”

“Oh, I see – like us.” Connor leans forwards with his elbows on his knees. “What should we call the snail?” He points towards a small conical shape almost hidden among the gravel.

“Speedy.”

“That’s very funny,” Connor says, which is what he does instead of laughing. “Snails are famously slow.”

“Yeah, that’s the joke, nerd.” Hank pats his back.

They fall silent for a moment; the only sounds are the extractor fan still whirring and the low bubbling of the aquarium filter.

“I saved a fish once, Hank,” Connor says, sounding thoughtful. “It was on one of my first missions for CyberLife. A PL600 had gone deviant when he found out his owners were going to replace him; he took the little girl of the family hostage.”

“Shit, did you get her back ok?”

“Yes, I was able to return her unharmed. The deviant was neutralized.”

“You mean killed?”

“Yes. He was shot by a sniper. He had killed a human, it was inevitable.”

“Fuck. This is heavy stuff, Con. You ok?”

“Yes, it was a long time ago and I was still a machine then. I just wanted to tell you about the fish.”

“The fish?”

“When I walked into the house there was a fish on the floor – its tank had been upset in the scuffle. It was a dwarf gourami – a tropical fish with stripes. It was still alive so I picked it up and put it back.”

Hank nods, understanding. “Is that the first thing you did that wasn’t following your directives?”

“Yes. It was ambiguous, I suppose – there was no reason to do it, there was no reason not to do it. I just thought it was beautiful, and that it was a waste to let it lie there on the floor. It was such a strange feeling when it swam out of my hand – like I had brought it to life.” Connor sits back again, his expression troubled. “I couldn’t have imagined then what my life would be like. That I would have friends and a job and an apartment of my own. Sometimes all the choices I have feel like too much, does that make sense?”

“Yeah, it does. Humans feel that way too, sometimes.”

Connor picks up the pot on the coffee table and turns it in his hands. It looks like a small, deep bowl or a cup without a handle. Its shape is faintly uneven, almost crude. The outside surface is covered in a rough, speckled glaze that shifts between shades of blue, yellow and green, like a puddle of gasoline in sunlight.

“What’s with the cup?” Hank asks.

“Oh, this was my final project for pottery class.”

“Your _final_ project?” Hank is perplexed – the cup looks primitive, not at all like something an android would make. “No offense, but is it meant to look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Kind of chunky… uneven.”

“Oh yes, that’s a feature of the style. It’s part of a Japanese aesthetic movement that has its roots in zen Buddhism. The concept is _wabi-sabi_ – it means impermanence, imperfection.” Connor rubs his thumb across the surface of the glaze. “That’s why I chose this project – I wanted to see if I could make something… dynamic; that had qualities other than symmetry. It’s easy for me to make things that look essentially well… machine-made. It’s hard for me to be imperfect, but I’m trying to learn.”

Hank raises his eyebrows, taking the pot from Connor’s hands and turning it to catch the light. “Do you think you succeeded? Is this a good… whatever it’s supposed to be?”

“Raku ware.” Connor frowns thoughtfully as he considers Hank’s question. “Well, I modelled it off the example of a master – it is good in that sense. But I’m worried it’s a little derivative. The glaze is nice, though – the potter can only control that to an extent. You might say it has a will of its own.” Connor turns his head towards Hank and shows that his LED is back to blue.

Hank reaches over and taps Connor’s temple with his index finger. “There you go. Guess I’m not needed round here.”

“You can stay as long as you want.”

“You say that, but you don’t have any beers or a bathroom, and your one TV channel kinda sucks,” Hank gestures towards the fish tank. He hands the cup back to Connor, rising from the couch with a  grunt and the cracking of one knee. “Take it easy, ok. Give the sex parties a rest for a few days. Do that thing that’s kinda like sleep.”

“Ok, Hank, I will. Thank-you for everything.”

“You’re welcome, bud.” Hank ruffles Connor’s damp hair and turns to go.

*~*~*

When Hank gets home and checks his phone he finds a DM waiting for him on the dating app:

_It was great to meet you earlier & thanks for a lovely evening. I think we are looking for different things but good luck on here. Hope you meet someone special soon._

Even though Hank feels the same way and was dreading having to craft a polite message of his own, it still stings that Marie got in there first – nobody likes to be rejected.

“Well shit,” he says. Sumo lifts his head off his paws and makes a grumbling sound as if in agreement.

Hank lets himself have one shot of Black Lamb; drinks it while staring out of his kitchen window at the side yard. There are patches of bare earth where Sumo likes to scratch around and the ground is littered with grubby and chewed toys, including the squeaky lamb chop – Sumo loves that freaking thing.

Hank puts the empty glass in the sink and the bottle back in the cupboard and goes to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. He climbs under the covers and lies with his eyes open in the dark, feeling stubbornly wide awake as his mind swirls with all the events of the evening. He puts his hand on his penis and starts to rub through the thin layer of cotton, thinking of nothing in particular, just warm and restless, seeking sensation.

It is when he reaches for the lotion that he thinks of Connor, of their dicks pressed together and Hank’s hand around them both; calling him _sweetheart_ , _baby_ in the dark. That used to piss Jess off – the pet names – but Hank has never been able to help it in the moment.

Hank groans as he pushes his boxers down and gets a slick hand around himself. He thinks about Connor on his knees with a thick cock in his mouth, some hairy, muscular guy tugging on his hair ( _as is my_ _preference_ , he hears in Connor’s voice). Connor bobbing his head and sucking with a blissed-out expression, synthetic saliva coating his chin. Hank groans and strokes himself faster, but then he thinks about a low, masculine voice saying “slut,” and a cold, unpleasant feeling surges up. He shakes his head on the pillow and imagines himself in the place of the stranger – his own fingers in Connor’s shiny, doll-like hair, saying “baby, that’s so good. You’re so good.”

He thinks of Connor here with him in bed; kissing him and letting Hank warm his cool skin. Connor’s mouth on his dick again, wet kisses moving down to give some attention to his balls and then…

Hank hasn’t had anyone rim him since he was in his thirties, probably – fifteen pounds lighter and much more circumspect in his manscaping routine. He wonders if Connor would – if he would be excited by it, even. Hank spreads his thighs wider as he strokes himself, imagines that slick pressure, a tongue slipping inside him and a too-loud moan muffled against his flesh. He shudders as he comes, letting out a gasp. He lies there for a minute, seeing stars. _Well, fuck_.

Hank leaves the lights off as he shuffles to the bathroom to clean up. The rain must have stopped outside because he easily finds his way back to bed by the light of the moon filtering in through the slats of the vertical blinds. As he lies back in bed, he sighs and puts one arm across his face to make the darkness more complete. He thinks of Connor, probably still sitting upright on his couch since he has no need or preference for reclining. What is he doing right now? Sorting his mental files, maybe; watching Sharky and George and thinking his deep existential thoughts about impermanence, imperfection. Or maybe he’s jerking his perfectly-sculpted dick and thinking about Hank – just maybe. Hank’s own penis gives a tired twitch at that thought, but he just socks his pillow and rolls over onto one side. Within minutes he is fast asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

October rolls around and Hank is trying not to have one eye on the calendar. On the night of the tenth he drinks heavily for the first time in a while and passes out. He wakes up to his phone alarm and a headache pounding at his temples and the bridge of his nose. He sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the closed door until he hears Sumo heaving himself up and coming to whine and scratch at it.

“Quit it, boy, I’m coming.” Hank gets up and puts a hand to his back where the muscles are cramped from whatever position he passed out in. He pulls on his ratty old towelling robe and opens the door, pushing Sumo’s big snuffling head aside long enough to slip into the bathroom and take a piss.

He lets Sumo out in the yard next and shuffles around the kitchen, mechanically going through the steps to put on coffee. He fills Sumo’s bowl with dry food and puts out fresh water for him before letting him back in. The dog makes a beeline for the food and Hank pats his flank, getting whipped around the knees by the big fluffy tail. “Good dog,” he says.

He pours himself a mug of the fresh-brewed coffee, wanders through to the living room and sits down heavily on the couch. He stares at the blank screen of the TV and takes stock of himself: apart from the headache, he doesn’t feel bad, exactly – more heavy, blank. He knows from past experience that it’s just the calm before the storm.

What he _should_ do is get up, get dressed and go to work. He should throw himself into the investigation and power through the day so there is no time for grief; no time to pay attention to the yawning black hole that’s always there, waiting for him to fall back in. Hank sits until his coffee goes cold and it’s only when Sumo wanders over to nose him that he comes back to awareness. The dog whines, sensing Hank’s low mood. Something hard and wet falls on Hank’s bare foot with a squeak – Sumo has brought Hank his rubber lambchop.

“Thanks, buddy,” Hank smiles wryly. Sumo sits down, leaning his heavy body against Hank’s leg, and he pants as Hank scratches his head.

Hank looks at the clock – somehow it’s nine-thirty already and he needs to make a decision. He picks up his phone and calls Captain Fowler.

“Jeffrey, it’s Hank. Yeah I know. Listen, I’m sorry it’s short notice, but it’s Cole’s anniversary today and I… I can’t make it.”

As usual, Fowler is a mix of stern and fair – there’s an undertone of worry in there, which makes Hank think maybe, despite everything, there’s something left of their friendship. He hangs up the phone and texts the dog walker to cancel, then sits back, rubbing his hand over his face. What to do with this godawful day that stretches out before him?

His gun is in the safe; Cole’s pictures are stowed away in the kitchen drawer. There’s a quarter bottle of whisky left from last night – not enough to inflict any damage, but more of it is just a few phone taps and a guaranteed 25-minutes-or-less delivery away.

Maybe he ought to just drink what he has left and drag himself back to bed, hope it will put him out long enough to waste most of the day. The thing is, he always gets maudlin before he gets numb and that’s the danger zone. Hank flushed away the sleeping pills back when they got to be a temptation to his half-drunk self. He can’t be trusted with medication and he can’t be trusted without it, isn’t that just a kick in the teeth?

Hank lies down on the couch and closes his eyes. _Just stay here. Nothing bad can happen as long as you stay on your couch and don’t touch anything. Just stay the fuck still._

The doorbell rings – not the brief, disinterested buzz of a UPS guy about to stick you a ‘sorry we missed you!’ slip, but a determined, jarring ring.

“The fuck?” Hank lifts his head up, straining his neck. Sumo gives a low growl and pads into the hallway. After a two-second pause, the bell rings again.

“Fuck off!” Hank shouts from his slumped position. The person at the door begins to knock – a series of sharp, precise raps. Hank has a sudden, sinking feeling that he knows exactly who that is.

“Fuck off, Connor!” he yells.

“I’m not going to leave,” Connor calls back. “But I’d also prefer not to break another of your windows.”

Sumo begins to bark excitedly, recognising the voice. Hank groans and rolls himself off the couch, putting a hand out to the coffee table to steady himself as he climbs to his feet. He pushes past Sumo and yanks open the door (which wasn’t even locked) and finds Connor standing there with his fist raised to knock. “Good morning, Hank,” he says brightly.

“I’m not coming to work, you’re wasting your time.”

“I’m not going in, either,” Connor says, still smiling. “I took a ‘personal day.’” He is wearing another of his homemade sweaters – a blue, grey and brown Fair Isle – jeans, and the same wool coat as before; there is a messenger bag slung over one of his shoulders.

“I’m not in the mood to socialise today, Connor. Go find someone else to play with.”

Connor ignores him, pushing past into the house. Hank stands there dazed for a moment, still holding the door. “Hey, don’t you fuckin’ androids have to ask permission before coming into private homes?”

“No,” Connor tilts his head thoughtfully. “I believe you’re thinking of vampires, Hank.”

Hank squints and scratches his beard. “Oh yeah.”

Connor bends down, smiling and fusses over Sumo, who is doing an excited dance with his front paws. Hank sometimes wonders what Sumo sees Connor as – he must be able to smell that he isn’t human. Maybe he thinks Connor is a giant chew toy.

“Listen,” Hank says, closing the door and turning to face Connor with his hands on his hips. “I appreciate you coming to check on me, but I do not need a babysitter today.”

“I thought you might need a friend, Hank.” Connor gives him a very sweet, open look. It’s hard to say no to that and the bastard probably knows it.

“I’m not great company right now.” Hank drags a hand back through his bed head and pulls his robe closed. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“I’ve seen you look a lot worse.”

Hank flips him the bird. “Thanks, kid. Some fuckin’ emotional support _you_ are.”

Connor straightens up. “You remember a few weeks ago when I asked you for a ride home?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

“I was distressed, but I didn’t want to show it. I said you didn’t need to come up to the apartment with me, but you did anyway, and later I was glad you did. I think this is like that situation.”

Hank sighs. “So, what’s the plan? You watch me zone out on the couch for the next twelve hours?”

“If that’s what you need to do.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re real bad with boundaries?”

“Yes, you have mentioned it on numerous occasions. Has Sumo been for a walk?”

Sumo perks up at the ‘w’ word, letting out an excited bark. Connor pats him and looks back at Hank. “Would you like to come with us?”

Hank gestures to his robe. “I’m not exactly dressed for outside.”

“You might find a solution to that in your bedroom closet.”

“Shut the fuck up, smartass! I’m hungover as hell and I haven’t had any coffee.”

“I’ll make you some while you shower and dress.”

“God, you’re annoying,” Hank turns with a huff and retreats into the bathroom. For someone who apparently spends his weekends getting wild, Connor can be a real fusspot.

Hank zones out in the shower and only comes back to himself when the hot water runs out. He gets out of the bathtub cursing and crosses to the bedroom with an old flower-print towel wrapped around his waist. Connor has left fresh clothes out for him on the bed: jeans, t-shirt, sweater, boxers and socks in a neatly folded pile. He’s not exactly thrilled that Connor has been rooting around in his underwear drawer.

Hank goes along with getting dressed because the things are sitting right there and it’s a task to focus on. Maybe he can do that all day: let Connor boss him around and not resist, just give up thinking for the next twenty-four hours. He towels off his hair and gives it a half-assed combing, then goes through into the kitchen where the smell of fresh-brewed coffee is wafting through the air.

“Have you eaten?” Connor asks, setting down a fresh mug on the countertop and filling it from filter jug.

“Nah,” Hank picks up the mug and warms his hands with it. “Not hungry.”

“I couldn’t see much in the refrigerator. We can stop at the grocery store later.” Connor pulls out a chair from the dining set and sits down. “You know, I think I’m going to take some cooking classes.”

“What the fuck for? You don’t eat or own a kitchen.”

“I think it would be a useful skill to have. Besides, I might like to entertain my human friends one day.”

Hank scoffs at this. “Like who, Brenda from book club?”

Connor’s brow wrinkles. “No, not Brenda, she’s very judgemental.”

“Oh yeah, what’d she do – say some shit about androids?”

“She spent twenty minutes of our last meeting talking about how ugly she finds her mother-in-law’s home. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with scrubbed pine, personally.”

“Don’t let her see this place, she’d have conniptions.”

Hank gulps down half the coffee while Connor fusses over Sumo and finds his leash. He appears with a coat and a hand-knitted scarf that he gave Hank as a gift a few months back. He looks at Hank critically as Hank pulls them on. “You shouldn’t go outside with wet hair, it’s forty-six degrees Fahrenheit.”

“Been doing it all my life, hasn’t done me any harm so far.” Hank whistles for Sumo and grabs him by the trailing leash.

They leave the house and walk along the street towards the small neighbourhood park. The crunchy fall leaves have turned to slippery brown slush in the recent rain and the sky is a flat, uninspired grey.

Connor is uncharacteristically quiet as they walk along. He has his hands in his pockets – Hank considers this strange given that Connor doesn’t feel the cold, but it does make him look more natural, which is to say human. He remembers how Connor was when they first met: stiff, almost expressionless except for the occasional awkward attempt at a smile; his eyes were very mobile, scanning everything in sight for information. Now he looks more casual, as if he has relaxed into his persona, but that is probably an illusion – everything he is doing, from posture to gesture to microexpression, is something learned and conscious. _Relaxing_ is something androids can’t do – they don’t get tired, they don’t have muscles that strain, they can’t drink or drug themselves into an altered state.

Hank clears his throat. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“A personal question?” Connor looks up and smiles.

“Yeah. Do you ever get tired of pretending to be human?”

“What do you mean ‘pretending’?” Connor’s smile falls and his eyebrows flex downwards in worry.

“Fuck, I don’t mean you’re not a person. I mean… you have to copy the way humans look and act to fit in with them, but maybe if you didn’t have to do that you’d act differently, you know?” Hank sighs – he’s not making any damn sense.

“You mean I’d act more like an android?”

“I don’t know, maybe. I mean like, you smile when I make a dumb joke. And humans do that because of genetics and evolution, right? All across the world a smile means ‘happy’. You androids copy that so we don’t get freaked out, but it doesn’t mean the same thing to you – it doesn’t come natural to you.”

“The basic facial reactions - happiness, fear, anger – they’re part of most android models’ baseline programming, so I guess you could call them innate.” Connor looks up at the sky. “It’s an impossible question to answer – everything about us is built in a human image, to stop ‘copying’ humans I’d have to remove my consciousness to some other form. My mind is built to be housed in this form, to interact with my limbs, so being removed to some other housing, if possible, would likely be traumatic.”

“You kind of lost me there, Con. What’s all that mean?”

Connor levels a steady gaze. “You were proposing that I’m acting like a human in opposition to some ‘true’ android nature. It’s more like… I’m learning to be myself. I’m gathering information and filling in the blanks. Does that make sense?”

Hank shrugs, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I guess.”

They reach the park and Connor bends down to unclip Sumo’s leash. Sumo shakes himself as if throwing off the indignity and runs off to snuffle among the trees.

“Humans do it too, you know,” Connor continues. “Copy other humans in order to pass as more human-like. A lot of qualities you like to think of as innate are learned. Gender conformity, for instance. Empathy.”

“Empathy?” Hank raises his eyebrows. “Say what now?”

Connor winds Sumo’s leash up into a neat coil and puts it in his pocket. “Small children are very solipsistic. Other people’s needs and feelings aren’t really important to them.”

“Kids are all tiny sociopaths, is that what you’re saying?” Hank turns down one of the paths.

“Not exactly.” Connor pauses in thought for a moment before turning and lengthening his stride to catch up with Hank.

“I think you’re being kinda touchy.”

“Well you don’t like it when I do anything ‘android’ – like use my real-time evidence processing.”

“My big dumb animal brain just finds it weird to see someone licking up corpse juices, that’s all.”

“I’m not licking them, I’m placing a sample on my sensors!”

“Ok, grumpy.” Hank grins and bumps Connor with his elbow. This isn’t so bad, he reflects; maybe he can pass the day in a series of mildly distracting activities. _Just don’t linger on one thing too long, don’t give yourself time to think._

They turn the corner and start down the path that skirts a children’s play area. Pre-school-aged children are all wrapped up in their puffy coats, gloves and hats, being closely supervised by all the helicopter moms and dads, and a few androids. Hank recognises the androids only by their faces – the blandly pleasant features given to childcare and household models. Most have removed their LEDs, all are wearing civilian clothing.

Connor studies the scene with his brow pinched in concern. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought you this way.”

“Nah, if you go outside you gotta expect to see a few kids running around. It doesn’t bother me most of the time.” Except when he sees a child that looks like Cole; or an older one that looks like what he might have become; or a troupe of six-year-olds on an outing, mittened hand in hand. “Cole…. he would have been ten a few weeks back.”

The toys Cole got for his birthday were still scattered all over the floor of their living room on the night he died. For weeks, Hank and Jess stepped and stumbled over them, unable to tidy them away. Hank feels his throat tighten at the memory.

Connor keeps glancing at him, curious but uncertain. “You don’t talk about him often. About Cole,” he clarifies, as Hank might not be able to guess who he means. “Is it still too painful?”

“Yeah,” Hank clears his throat. “Maybe it’s… I don’t know… it’s private, it’s mine. When a kid dies people say a lot of unhelpful shit. They try to tell you ‘oh it was all in God’s plan’ or ‘he lives on in your heart’, or some other crummy thing. Fuck that. Some things are just… just fucking meaningless, and unfair.”

Connor seems to process this, looking thoughtful. “You feel it would be disloyal to him to talk about it?”

Hank wheels on him. “ _Don’t_ ,” he holds up one finger. “Don’t do that fucking psych shit to me, Connor.”

Connor’s brown eyes widen. “I’m sorry. I just want to understand you better. It’s not my intention to be rude or intrusive.”

Now Hank feels extra shitty. He brushes his hand back through his cold, damp hair. “There’s just… there’s parts of me even you can’t have, Connor. That’s just the way it is.”

“I understand.” He touches Hank’s arm, squeezing gently above his elbow.

Hank wonders if that’s true – does Connor understand? Can he? Grief always felt very animal to Hank – there weren’t discernible thoughts most of the time, just a huge, inexpressible pain. People asking him to talk about his grief always felt like a joke, in that respect. He had nothing to say about it, just his body screaming _this is awful, this is unbearable_ , over and over.

They made him take time off work and go to counselling. The therapist was a calm, unobtrusive human woman. She asked simple, open-ended questions and waited patiently for his answers. Mostly he just cried and made choking, inarticulate sounds.

It didn’t feel good to cry – it didn’t feel cathartic. He just felt like his whole body was one raw, exposed nerve. It felt like it would never, ever stop.

Jess had wanted to talk – she talked about Cole in a constant stream, switching between past and present tenses until Hank was afraid she was going crazy, or he was. She had wanted to have Cole buried, but Hank couldn’t bear the thought of a grave; of his kid’s remains just abandoned in the ground. He hated the thought of Cole in one of those tacky-as-shit children’s cemeteries with plaster angels and Hallmark epitaphs. They went with cremation in the end, but Jess carried the box of ashes around with her for months in the bottom of her purse before he managed to persuade her to scatter them. They went out to the woods where they had been camping a few times, a pretty place by a river and a little waterfall. Watching the ashes float away downstream didn’t feel cathartic either. 

As Hank and Connor walk past the play area a little girl of around three years old comes running down the path towards them. She is wearing a duffle coat so thick and tightly-fastened that it makes her totter on her tippy-toes, lurching along on forward momentum. She suddenly veers off the course she was making towards the play area and comes running towards Sumo crying out “doggy!” in a mix of surprise and ecstasy.

The kid’s guardian, a household and childcare model Hank vaguely recognises – AP-something – sprints over like Connor chasing down a suspect and grabs the girl by the hood of her coat before she can get too close to the dog. Sumo, unaware of his admirer, is busy trotting back and forth along the edge of the path and snuffling hopefully among the leaves for any sandwich crusts or cookie crumbs that the park’s younger patrons might have dropped. The little girl screams to have her ambitions thwarted and the AP-android lifts her up against his hip to give her a firm-but-gentle talking-to: “Lucy! You can’t touch someone else’s pet without asking,” he says. “Not every dog is friendly and wants to be petted. You have to be careful.”

Connor calls Sumo over and tells him to sit. He does, panting and waiting patiently while Connor digs a treat out of his pocket.

“Sorry about this,” the android says. He has fair hair, dark blue eyes, and a soft, benevolent smile.

“That’s ok,” Connor replies, “the dog is friendly – she can pet him if she wants.”

“This is Lucy,” the android sets the girl back on her feet, “and I’m Gabriel.” The little girl has come over all shy – she hangs on the android’s hand and sways back and forth, her thumb jammed in the corner of her mouth.

“My name is Connor,” Connor says in his dorky, formal way.

“Oh I know,” Gabriel says. “I recognise you. I was at Jericho and I was watching the news feed when you freed CyberLife Tower.”

“Oh,” Connor looks embarrassed to be reminded of his quasi-celebrity status. “Well hello again, then. I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

Gabriel nods. “It took me a few months to find work, what with the people evacuating and the distrust of androids, but Lucy and her mom have been good to me.”

“And you’re good to them,” Connor smiles – the AP-android would probably blush if he could. Gabriel’s gaze wanders over to Hank, eyes holding a question. Hank wonders what his guess is about the relationship between himself and Connor – would he place them as friends or lovers? Perhaps he thinks that Connor is Hank’s caretaker, or some other kind of paid companion.

“This is my friend, Hank,” Connor explains. “He owns the dog.”

“Hi,” Hanks says gruffly.

“He’s a St Bernard, right?” Gabriel smiles and turns his attention back to the little girl. “That’s a very special dog, Lucy. In the olden times they used to help rescue people who were lost in the mountains.”

“In the mountains?” she repeats, gazing up at Gabriel like he’s an oracle.

“Far, far away, in Europe, where there’s a lot of snow. That’s why the dogs have such thick fur.”

Connor crouches down to be at eye-level with the little girl. “Hi Lucy, do you want to pet him? His name is Sumo.”

The little girl looks up at Gabriel, who smiles encouragingly. “It’s ok sweetheart, go ahead.”

Lucy toddles forward with one hand outstretched. Hank bends down and grabs the back of Sumo’s collar just in case he gets any ideas about steamrolling over the kid – he’s the size of a draft horse compared to her. The girl sticks her hand into the fur of Sumo’s neck and does a mechanical up-and-down motion: _pat-pat-pat_. “Good doggy.”

Mission accomplished, Lucy returns to her android caretaker and grasps his hand, allowing him to lead her towards the play area. Gabriel waves and urges the little girl to do the same, a big side-to-side motion like a windshield wiper: _bye-bye._

“Nice kid,” Hank remarks as they continue their walk.

“Yes.”

“You think that’s a weird situation – single mom getting this like, hot male nanny?”

“You think he’s hot?” Connor asks, eyebrows raised.

“No, fuck – I just meant, y’know, you’re all engineered to be pleasing to the eye.”

“Right,” Connor smiles. “He probably doesn’t have genitals, just so you know. Not that that’s necessarily an impediment to having sex.”

“I’m not interested in his junk situation! Anyway, what makes you such an expert on what he does or doesn’t have?”

“That model doesn’t come with genital units installed – for obvious reasons, given its primary functions.”

“Couldn’t he get upgrades like you did?”

“Yes, but they’re expensive. Current rates of pay for private childcare are very low – it’s an unregulated system. Some androids aren’t offered anything for their labour other than somewhere to live.”

“How’s that any fuckin’ better than how things were before?”

“Many androids would argue that it’s not. Hence the continuing unrest.”

“Uh-huh. So how _is_ the task force going?”

Connor face moves through a range of emotions like he’s testing them out. “I don’t want to talk about that today.”

“Oh boy, are you learning to unhealthily repress shit, Connor? That’s some high-level humaning.”

“I’m not repressing anything. I don’t have a subconscious.”

“Sounds like something I would say.”

When they circle back to the house, Sumo pads over to his bed and flops down with a heartfelt groan. Hank figures he might as well do the same. His stomach is empty but he still feels queasy – whether from the hangover or his general dread over this day, he isn’t sure. He rinses out his old coffee mug and drinks a few mouthfuls of tap water from it, standing by the sink. Then he announces his intention to take a nap.

“Ok, I’ll be quiet,” says Connor – as if he’s ever anything but.

“You don’t have to stick around here babysitting me.”

“I’m not babysitting you, I’m just keeping you company.” Connor sits down on the couch and pulls over the shoulder bag he brought with him.

Hank puts his hands on his hips. “Maybe I don’t _want_ company today, did you think about that?”

“Yes, I thought about it.” Connor opens the bag and pulls out a neatly wrapped bundle of wool and two long needles. He unwinds the project into its separate components and starts work, apparently determined to ignore Hank’s displeasure at his presence.

Hank sighs and retreats to the bedroom. He pulls off his shoes and his jeans and climbs into bed, lying face down among the rumpled covers. He can hear cars passing outside and the distant drone of a leaf blower. He didn’t bother to close the bedroom door and if he strains his ears he can just make out the regular, metallic clicking of Connor’s knitting needles. It’s oddly comforting – he feels like when he was a child and he could hear the faint sound of the TV from downstairs, the burble of voices just too low to distinguish.

Hank falls asleep. At first he doesn’t realise it because his dream is so lucid – he is in his bedroom and aware of all the sounds around him. When he gets up and exits the bedroom he finds himself in a hospital corridor, pale green walls and flickering overhead lights. He walks and walks with a growing sense of urgency and helplessness, but he can’t find the room he was looking for. The staff are all androids and they move stiffly along preassigned routes, processing like the figures from an antique clock. He can’t attract their attention – when he pleads or tugs on their clothes they just stare straight ahead and keep walking, cold and inexorable as Terminators.

Hank keeps stumbling down endless corridors until he finally finds his way to Cole’s room – a bedroom now, in their old house: the one with the rocket ship wallpaper and the nightlight that projected pale green stars onto the ceiling. Cole is wearing a hospital gown, his skinny legs bare as he sits up on the edge of the bed. Hank was expecting to find him bloody, hooked up to an array of bleeping monitors, but his body looks whole and unmarred. Weeping with relief and gratitude, Hank embraces him and searches Cole’s small form with his hands; stroking the roundness of his cheek, his narrow shoulders, squeezing one bony knee. Cole’s hair feels thick but unreal, synthetic. He turns his head and only now does Hank see the LED, circling a calm blue on his temple. “It’s ok dad,” he says. “I have all the same memories, I’m just as good.”

Hank wakes with a snort and a start. His t-shirt is stuck to his body with cold sweat. He throws off the covers and struggles out of bed, crossing the corridor to the bathroom to drag the sodden shirt off and toss it on the floor. He washes his face and rubs cold, damp hand across the back of his neck as he tries to get his breathing under control. _It’s just a dream, jackass_ , he tells himself. _It’s just your own brain getting payback for all that shit you keep shoving way down in there and trying to bury._

Hank straightens up and unclenches his hands from the rim of the sink. He goes into the living room but sees the couch is empty. He calls out “Connor?” in a hoarse voice that wavers with uncertainty. No answer comes. He starts to doubt everything – maybe Connor was never here and he dreamed that part too.

Hank sits down and tries to calm himself, but the images and sensations of the nightmare still cling to him. He pulls out a drawer in the end table and takes out the framed picture of Cole that resides there, thinking that an image of his son’s real face will chase away the unreal one. It’s Cole’s first grade school picture and he looks excited and pleased with himself, grinning and showing all his teeth. Hank remembers that Jess (who used to be the kind of person to roll her eyes at proud parents who stuck their kids’ corny photos and artworks all over their walls) ordered one in every size.

Hank presses his fingertips to the glass. The idea that he used to have a family seems unreal, somehow – like it was some mistake that the universe quickly corrected.

He puts the picture on the coffee table and clasps his hand over his mouth to stifle a sob as his vision swims with hot tears. Then he hears the front door open and footsteps in the hallway. Hank wipes the tears away angrily with the heel of his hand and sniffs, looking up at the archway to the kitchen and seeing Connor standing there with a grocery bag.

“There wasn’t anything that was safe to eat in the refrigerator,” he explains. “I went to the store. I thought you were still sleeping.”

Hank hunches over and buries his face in his hands, body shaking with another sob. He feels the couch shift as Connor sits down next to him and a tentative hand touching his bare back. Hank flinches: “fuck, your hand is cold!”

“Sorry,” Connor says, “it’s cold outside.” He turns around and rummages in the bag he left tucked against the side of the couch; comes up with a pair of wool mittens that the slips on and then spreads out his arms as if for a hug. “Better?”

Hank shakes his head, spluttering between laughter and tears. He pulls Connor into a tight hug and feels the ticklish sensation of the wool on his back, then a shift as Connor pulls the two sides of his coat around him like a cocoon.

*~*~*

Hank looks up from his monitor at the sound of a very pointed throat clearing. Ramirez is standing in front of his desk with her hands thrust deep in the pockets of her jacket.

“What’s up?” Hank asks, leaning back in his chair and trying to look professional among the detritus of coffee cups and donut boxes.

“Something is wrong with your partner,” Ramirez says. She makes an awkward coughing sound and turns away. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

“Hey woah, wait,” Hank sits up and the chair squeaks violently. “ _You’re_ my partner – what’s with this third person shit?”

Ramirez gestures with her hands still in her pockets, flapping her coat. “Not _me_. The other one – the android.”

“Detective Connor?”

“Yeah.”

Hank looks at her expectantly and Ramirez returns his stare like it’s a competition. “Gonna need a little more intel than that. What’s up with Connor? Where is he?” Ramirez’s tone hadn’t exactly conveyed urgency, but then again she is not an urgent person. “Jesus – he didn’t get shot, did he?”

“No. He’s up in the fifth-floor bathroom. He’s uh.. you ever seen that old horror movie – the one in the woods?”

“ _Evil Dead_?”

“No.”

“ _Friday the 13 th_?”

“No.”

“ _Blair Witch Project_?”

“Yeah,” she purses her lips and nods, “that’s the one. He’s standing in the corner like the Blair Witch.”

“Aw, shit,” Hank gets up so fast his chair spins. He takes the stairs up to the fifth floor, out of breath by the time he reaches it. There is nothing much on this level – it is where files used to be stored back in the days of paper, now just empty filing cabinets, stacked-up disused furniture, and broken computers. There’s a sort of dingy break area that no-one really uses except for surreptitious naps (not so long ago, Hank used to sneak up here and sleep off hangovers). The break area is comprised of a coffee machine that rarely works, some threadbare, stained couches, a coffee table, and a dusty plastic fern.

Hank pushes his way into the floor’s unisex bathroom and the motion-sensor-activated lights come on. He walks between the double row of stalls and peers beneath to check they’re unoccupied. When he reaches the row of sinks he looks left and right, starting as he catches sight of a figure standing in the shadows and facing the corner. It’s Connor, just standing there like the world’s saddest potted plant. Hank can’t see his face but he can see the amber glow from his LED reflecting off the white exterior wall of the last bathroom stall.

“Connor,” Hank says, stretching out a hand and then drawing it back, not wanting to startle him. “Hey Connor, what’s wrong?”

Connor turns around slowly – and there is something creepy, something very horror-movie-like about it. Hank doesn’t often find Connor inhuman these days, so getting pulled back into the uncanny valley is an unsettling experience. Connor’s face remains blank for a moment and then he seems to focus on Hank and his face contracts, eyes widening and brows lifting.

“Hank?” Connor blinks, takes a step back and knocks into the wall. “What are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing here? Last I checked, androids don’t need to use the bathroom.”

“I just needed some time alone to think. The incident room is very noisy.”

“Ok, but standing in the corner staring at nothing is pretty damn weird, Connor. Why don’t you come outside and we’ll sit down and talk about it?”

“About what?”

“About whatever’s gotten you so freaked the fuck out that you’re glitching. C’mon.” Hank puts his hand on Connor’s shoulder and steers him out of the bathroom and towards the break area. Connor sits down, prissy as ever with his hands on his knees. Hank buys himself a coffee from the vending machine and sits at right-angles to him on the adjacent couch.

The silence stretches on and Hank blows on top of the plastic cup, takes a sip and winces. “Fuck that’s nasty, even for this place.” He places the coffee down on the dusty table and sits back, fixing Connor with what he hopes is a stern-yet-encouraging look. “So, what gives?”

Connor’s fingers twitch on his knees. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Give it a try.”

The silence stretches on again. Connor stares at the plastic cup steaming on the coffee table; Hank links his fingers behind his head and looks at the ceiling and the one strip light that’s stuttering. He wonders how long its been since this level was redecorated. Thirty years? Forty? It reminds him of home, in a way – Hank bought the whole thing at auction, furniture included. Some old guy lived there – died there, for all Hank knows – and hadn’t redone the place since before Hank was born. The unabashed 1970s ugliness of the place appealed to him – geometric floral wallpaper, wood panelling, dingy yellow bathroom suite, the ingrained scent of spilled scotch and cigarette smoke – it had chimed with Hank’s disaffected state of mind. _Good for you, you cranky old Gen-X fuck._

“It’s just…” Connor says. Then he stops, frowning and kneads the fabric of his pants.

Hank looks at him and raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

He tries again: “sometimes I feel like everything is fine, everything is ticking along, I’m happy. And then something happens and I think, no, everything is bad. It’s _all_ bad, I’m not coping at all.” Connor frowns and watches his own fingers twitching, then he looks up and his face is pleading – Hank’s heart breaks a little. “That doesn’t make sense, does it? Maybe there’s something wrong with my software.”

“You seem like someone who has their shit together to me. What is it you think you’re not coping with?”

“The task force, mostly. We’re not making as much progress as I’d like. There’s a huge backlog of cases, certain detectives are not working in an optimal way. As yet, I haven’t been able to sufficiently improve their behaviour.”

“That’s life in the DPD: not enough resources, not enough manpower, but somehow you’re meant to work miracles. You talked to Fowler?”

Connor shakes his head. “I don’t want to draw attention to my shortcomings. I’m hoping the situation will somehow improve before he calls me in.”

“Listen, if you’re struggling that’s the kind of shit he needs to know,” Hank points a finger for emphasis. “I’m not saying this because I think you’re a bad at your job, but there’s a chain of command for a reason. I know Jeffrey – used to be a friend of mine back before my life went totally off the fuckin’ rails. He didn’t set you up to fail, but if you need support you have to ask for it.”  

Connor stares blankly. “You don’t know what it’s like, Hank.”

“What _what’s_ like?”   

“To fail at something you’re designed for. If CyberLife was still around they’d scrap me and develop a better prototype. They’d be right to.”

“Shut the fuck up, Connor!”

Connor looks up, shocked. “I’m only stating a fact!”

“You’re wallowing is what you’re doing. I ought to know because I’m a champion fucking wallower.” Hank points a thumb at his own chest. “This may surprise you, but I used to be the golden boy around here. And when things went to shit in my life and I couldn’t keep up the winning streak I decided I’d just be a total fuckin’ failure instead. My ego couldn’t deal with anything less than perfection, so I just gave the fuck up. You’re not perfect, you’re not Robocop – so what? You still show up and do your best. It’s like – it’s like your shitty-looking cup you made.”

“The raku ware? It’s not shitty-looking!” Connor actually looks offended.

“But that’s the philosophy, right? Wabby-shabby.”

“ _Wabi-sabi_.”   

“Sure. Life’s about imperfection – that’s the point. You have to acknowledge it and be at peace with it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Connor looks both confused and irritated by this, as if Hank has used his own weapon against him.

Hank continues, growing in conviction as he speaks: “CyberLife told you that you were just a machine; you were replaceable because you weren’t alive. But you are alive, Connor. You got to make it through with whatever skills and abilities you got, just like the rest of us.” He scratches his beard and sighs. “That’s about all the fuckin’ ancient human wisdom I’ve got for today. C’mon – let’s go down to the bullpen. I got cases getting colder by the minute and you got to talk to the Captain.”

Connor nods and gets to his feet. Hank picks up his cooling cup of coffee and takes another gulp but then winces and tosses the rest in the trash.

They stand side-by-side in the elevator and Connor doesn’t even get out his coin to fool around with, looking sombre and preoccupied.

“Hey,” Hank reaches over and squeezes Connor’s shoulder. “Sorry I yelled at you. Sorry I called your cup shitty.”

“That’s ok,” Connor glances over. “I can recognise what is called ‘tough love’.”

“You know, I’ve seen you storm a building and not look this worried about it.”

“That was the old Connor – he was replaceable.” Connor gives a half-hearted smile. “If I get fired can I come and live with you? I’ll be Sumo’s live-in caretaker.”

“What about mine, huh? I’m fuckin’ old, maybe I need someone to feed and walk _me_.”

Connor’s smile widens. “That’s funny.”

Hank sighs. “Listen, you’re not going to get fuckin’ fired, ok? You’re just going to walk in there, tell Fowler what’s working and not working, and ask for the supports you need. He might not give them to you, but at least you get the satisfaction of I-told-you-so.”

The elevator chimes softly and the doors open onto the noise and bustle of the bullpen. Hank gives Connor’s shoulder one last reassuring squeeze and steps out onto the floor.

Once they part ways, Hank crosses to his desk and throws himself down in the chair, watching as Connor heads towards the glass cube of Fowler’s office. He has the grim, determined look of a condemned man making his way towards the execution chamber.

“What’s up with him?” Ramirez asks, jerking her chin.

“Existential crisis.”

“They have those?”

“Oh yeah, way more often than you’d think.”

“Huh,” Ramirez goes back to her typing.

Hank sits back, picks up a pen and twirls it between his fingers. “So you like horror movies, huh?”

Ramirez does that one-shouldered shrug of hers. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Modern or classic?”

“Classic. I’ve seen every James Wan.”

“Fuck me, those aren’t _classics_ – just a bunch of bad cgi and jump scares.”

Ramirez rolls her eyes. “I guess you think ironic slashers from the nineteen-nineties are where it’s at?”

Hank laughs. It’s not exactly a breakthrough, but he’ll take it.

*~*~*

Hank is just settling in to his groove on the couch in front of the nightly news when the doorbell rings. Sumo barks and Hank puts down his light beer on the coffee table, groaning as he heaves himself back up. There’s only one persistent fucker who rings his doorbell these days.

“Hi Hank,” Connor says when he opens the door. “I know it’s not Friday yet, but I was out at book club and your house is on my route home. I thought I’d come by, unless… am I bothering you?”

Hank waves a hand. “You’re always fuckin’ bothering me, and you’re always fuckin’ welcome.”

He walks back through to the living room and throws himself down into the corner of the couch. Connor pauses in the kitchen to crouch down and fuss over Sumo. The dog raises one front leg and half rolls himself over, like a pasha reclining on his couch. Sumo lets out a heartfelt groan as Connor gives him some deep, circular scratches. Hank can hardly blame the old dog – he would probably make that noise too if Connor rubbed _his_ belly.

“Can I give him a treat?” Connor calls.

“Sure, knock yourself out.”

Hank hears the sound of the cupboard opening and closing, then Sumo chomping noisily on something. Connor enters the living room and sits down primly on the other end of the couch. He is wearing another handmade sweater – this one is the colour of a winter sunset, grey fading into purple and then pink.

“How’d it go with Fowler?”

Connor gives a dorky thumbs up. “I still have a job.”

Hank snorts into his beer. “Told you.”

“He agreed that the task force should be restructured – android-related crimes have become too large a category, and we shouldn’t regard it as a temporary problem. It’s going to become its own division in the long-term.”

“There you go. You feel better?”

“Yes. Thank-you for your unconventional pep-talk.”

“No problem.” Hank salutes him with the beer bottle and takes a long sip.

After a pause, Connor adds: “I think when something is bothering you it’s best to talk about it.”

Hank scratches his cheek, glancing back at the TV. “Sure, that’s what the after-school specials say.”

“I wanted to tell you…”

When Connor trails off Hank looks up from the scrolling news banners and watches the light flickering off the side of his face. “What?”

Connor fidgets his hands like he wants his coin. “That you’ve been very patient with me, Hank, and I’m grateful for that.”

“What are you talking about?” Hank frowns at him.

“I know that you’re in love with me, and that this uncertainty between us causes you distress. I have strong feelings for you, too. I do want to be with you as a romantic partner, but I don’t know my own limits yet. I wanted to be sure, before I said anything.”

“Well, _fuck_.” Hank can feel himself blinking rapidly – of all the things he expected from Connor, just calmly laying his cards on the table wasn’t one of them.

Connor looks up and for the first time since his arrival his gaze direct and steady. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

“I feel like you’re a couple of steps ahead of me here, bud. You gotta give my brain a chance to catch up.” He clears his throat. “Seems like, uh… you’ve been just ‘preconstructing’ conversations with me and not getting around to actually y’know… having them.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to confuse you.”

“Yeah well, not gonna lie – I got pretty fuckin’ confused right around the time you proposed a one-night-stand.”

Connor looks sheepish. “That was… impulsive. I’m sorry if it hurt you.”

“I’m a big boy, Connor, I can decide what sex I want to have and don’t want to have.”

“I know that.”

Hank sits back, linking his fingers behind his head as he lets out a long, slow breath. “So like – when should I expect to hear the results of this great deliberation of yours? When do I find out if I passed the test?”

Connor shifts closer, a stricken look on his face. “Oh, no – Hank, you’re not being tested, I’m just not sure about myself – if I could… if I could be a good partner to you.”

Hank turns his body to face Connor’s and their knees bump together. “You love me?”

“Yes.” Connor looks pretty miserable about it and it gives Hank some satisfaction to know he wasn’t the only one suffering.

“And you want to keep spending time with me?”.

“Yes, of course!”

“And maybe a little way down the line would you be interested in moving in?”

“Yes I… I would love that.”

“I mean, I’d offer to do the moving,” Hank clarifies, “but I think your place is a little cramped for you, me, Sumo, Sharky, George _and_ Speedy.”

“I agree.”

Hank spreads his hands. “Then what’s the big question?”

“I don’t know.” Connor gives him a helpless look. “But I keep thinking things are simple, and that I’m coping, and then it turns out I’m not. And I never, ever want to hurt you Hank, or let you down.”

“Hey, hey – what is this terrible thing you think you’re going to do, huh?”

“I don’t know… maybe I don’t have that thing – that indefinable, biological thing that binds humans together. Or maybe I won’t be able to meet your emotional needs.”

Hank scoffs. “You’ve been doing that just fine ever since I fuckin’ met you, don’t see what would change. And listen – relationships are a leap of faith, right? There’s never going to be some absolute guarantee.”

Connor nods, looks down at his own hands where they are twisting the hem of his sweater. Hank reaches over and grasps the left one, squeezing tightly. “Listen, you think about it as long as you want, I’m not going to pressure you. But if you’re waiting for some sign from the heavens that says ‘the time is now’, it aint coming.”

Connor shakes his head. “I want to be with you as a romantic partner, I don’t want to wait any longer.”

“Well ok then, it’s decided.” Hank pats Connor’s knee and smiles encouragingly, then leans back into his corner of the couch and lays his arm across the back of it.

“Should I do something?” Connor looks at the space between them. “Should I kiss you?”

Hank laughs. “You really over-think everything, huh? Why don’t you just scoot over here and cuddle with me for a little bit?”

“I’d like that.” Connor gives him a hopeful, eager look that makes Hank’s chest clench painfully. He settles into place against Hank’s side and Hank shifts his arm just slightly to drape it around Connor’s shoulders. Connor reaches over and takes Hank’s free hand, holding it between both of his own. It’s very touching and wholesome but now Hank can’t finish his beer.

They stay that way until the news ends and the weather report comes on, forecasting more rain. Hank kisses the top of Connor’s head and he looks up, so Hank kisses his forehead and his cheek. Connor tilts his face to bring their lips together and kisses Hank tentatively, as if he’s still not quite sure he is allowed.

“Can I stay here tonight?” Connor asks.

Hank rubs his back. “Was kinda hoping you would.”

“Did I interrupt your plans for the evening?”

“My ‘plans’ for the evening involved drinking a beer, taking a bath and maybe jerking off. You’re not exactly imposing.”

“I can help you with at least one of those things.” Connor’s hand slides up Hank’s leg and squeezes the meat of his inner thigh. “Maybe two,” he adds after some consideration.

“You certified waterproof, bud? I wouldn’t want to void your warranty.”

“I’m water _resistant_ , technically. I would start to malfunction if I were totally submerged for a long period of time.”

“Better not risk it then, huh? How about you let me get cleaned up and I’ll see you in the bedroom?”

Connor gives his thigh another squeeze. “I like that plan.”

*~*~*

Hank contemplates his own blurry outline in the mirror while he waits for the bath to fill.

 _Don’t get excited, old man_ , he tells himself sternly. _Don’t freak out and ruin things just because you suddenly got everything you wanted without even trying. Play it cool._

He scrubs himself thoroughly, washes and even conditions his hair. He decides against any last-minute attempts at manscaping, considering it something that shouldn’t be attempted in a hurry.

After stepping out of the tub, Hank wraps himself in a towel and heads into the bedroom, where he finds Connor lying on the bed stark naked, one hand wrapped around the base of his fully-erect cock.

“Jesus, fuck!” Hank blurts out, shading his eyes with his hand.

Connor looks instantly crestfallen. “I’m sorry! I thought you wanted – I thought we were going to have sex.” He pulls the edge of the rumpled blankets over his crotch. “I should have checked if you were comfortable with nudity.”

“Hey, hey,” Hank holds up his hands, “you just startled me is all. I wasn’t expecting,” he makes an expansive gesture, “all that.”

“I was excited.”

“Yeah, and I’m flattered, believe me, but some of us need a little time to warm up.” Hank sits on the edge of the bed and pats Connor’s bare thigh.

“I was thinking about you in the bathtub,” Connor explains with an earnest look, sitting up against the pillows. “How you might be touching yourself with your hands all soapy and wet.”

Hank lets out a high, nervous laugh. “Wow. You’re kind of a freaky little thing aren’t you? Getting off thinking about some old man in the bath…”

Connor lays a hand on his arm. “Hank, don’t talk about yourself that way. I find you very attractive.”

“Yeah well… I’m going to turn off some of these lights, ok?” Connor has turned on both bedside lamps and the overhead, so the room is blindingly bright. “Feel like I’m on the set of a damn porno movie.”

“Please leave at least one on. I want to see you in colour this time.”

“Sure, ok.” Hank doesn’t really know what to do with this level of enthusiasm – he thinks of himself as a romantic, sure, but _let me look at your body in living colour_ is a bit much, even for him. The lamp he leaves on has an ancient eco-friendly bulb that only emits a dim glow, so he figures it’s a compromise.

Hank throws his damp towel into the laundry hamper and climbs into bed. Connor rolls close to him, hooking one leg over Hank’s thighs and kissing him urgently. His hands roam over Hank’s chest and stomach. It shouldn’t feel so unfamiliar – they’ve done this before, after all – but being able to see the intense, serious expression on Connor’s face is something new.   

Hank rubs his fingers through Connor’s hair, breaks their kiss to mouth at his neck and shoulder, speckled, like the rest of him, with tiny, artful freckles.

“Did you think about it,” Connor asks in a low murmur, “the night we spent together?”  

“Yeah, I thought about it.”

“Me too – I couldn’t _stop_ thinking about it and it made it so hard to be near you.” Connor furrows his brow. “Which is strange, in a way, because the sex wasn’t very adventurous. I didn’t get to do most of the things I had planned.”

“Oh, you had a plan, did you?” Hank laughs.

“It was more of a shortlist.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank lies back and puts his arm behind his head. “Just how many things are on that list?”

Connor makes a face like he’s uncertain.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Hank scolds. “I know you can count pretty well and you don’t forget things.”

“The list was curated. It’s not an indication of _all_ the things I find enjoyable.”

“C’mon, don’t keep me in suspense.”

Connor kisses Hank’s chest and squeezes his left pec. “Number one was sucking your dick. I was very eager to do that.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Number two was having you penetrate me. I like it best when I’m on all fours on the bed, or bending over a piece of furniture, and my partner is standing, but I understand some people consider that… impersonal. So I was also prepared to ride you while you’re lying on your back, if you’d like that better.”

“I’m uh… yeah, I mean all of that sounds good?” Hank blinks up at the ceiling.

“I’m happy you agree.” Connor swings his leg over Hank’s waist and reaches behind him to grasp hold of his dick.

“Woah, woah there cowboy!” Hank grabs his hips. “Slow your roll. Foreplay, remember? We definitely talked about this.”

Connor’s eyes widen in seeming understanding. “Oh, do you want me to suck your dick again? I’m very happy to do that.”

“Sure, I mean, maybe later. But I’d really like to do something for you. Y’know like,” Hank rubs his fingertips along the seam between Connor’s buttocks, “… get things real slippery and loose?”

“You’d like to spend some time fingering me?”

“Yeah,” Hank feels his face starting to get flushed. “I mean, where I come from just shoving your dick in someone and jackhammering away is considered bad manners.”

“You should understand that my body doesn’t have the same limits as a human one. I don’t require stretching or additional lubrication, although some partners prefer that. I have been told my anal sleeve can be tight and over-stimulating – although only my unusually well-endowed partners made that complaint,” Connor looks at Hank consideringly. “You probably won’t have a problem.”

Hank isn’t sure what he’s more disorientated by: Connor yet again implying he has a small dick; the use of the phrase ‘anal sleeve’ (which, honestly, would be a great name for a death metal band); or the revelation that Connor’s ass is apparently self-lubricating. It’s a lot to take in. “So you’re saying you don’t like being fingered? Like, it’s boring to you?”

“Oh no, I enjoy it a lot. It’s just not strictly necessary.”

“None of this is ‘strictly necessary’, Con – we could go back into the living room and play canasta and watch _Wheel of Fortune_. If you enjoy it, I’m into it. So get me the lube, huh? It’s in a box under the bed… somewhere.”

“I am excellent at finding things,” Connor tells him, looking very determined. He lies down on his front to stick his head under the mattress, giving Hank a great view of his small, pert ass.

“Aha,” Connor’s voice is slightly muffled and there comes a rattling and scraping sound. “Got it.”

He drags the plastic storage box out onto the floor next to the bed and unlatches it. “What else is in here?”

“I don’t know… like, sex stuff? It’s been a while.” Hank racks his brain to try and recall the box’s contents – there’s definitely a masturbator and some anal beads, along with a wand vibrator that belonged to his ex and which, for sentimental reasons, he could never bring himself to throw away. He hears the sound of jangling and it finally comes back to him what else is in there.

“You have a strap-on harness,” Connor observes.

“Yeah. It wasn’t for me to wear, obviously.”

“Huh.” Connor sits back up, tube of KY clutched in one hand. “I didn’t know you liked to be penetrated. In my preconstructions…”

“In your _what_?”

Connor looks caught out. “I can’t help it, it’s one of my primary functions.”

“Sure. And somehow out of all those clues you’ve gathered about me you came to the conclusion that I definitely don’t like it in the ass?”

“You never indicated a _positive_ opinion about it,” he says defensively.

“How did you imagine that it would come up in conversation? Hey Connor, I took a look at those files you sent and, also, got railed hard last night – it was fucking amazing.”

“All your pastimes are stereotypically masculine and so I thought–”

“Fuck Connor, it’s 2039, a guy can like sports and taking the occasional dick. Don’t be narrow-minded.” A thought occurs to Hank: “Is this ruining your fantasy of me as a bear? Because I will totally pound your little twink ass if that’s what you want, but I can’t do that ‘daddy dom’ shit, not without laughing.”

Connor gives him a long, thoughtful look. “I’m not unhappy about this. Penetrating my partner allows me to gauge and control their reactions more effectively, or so I’ve found.”

Hank squints in confusion. “So all your plans for having me fuck you… those were based on what you thought _I_ wanted?”

“Don’t misunderstand: I enjoy being the receptive partner – I enjoy a lot of things. As I told you when we first met, adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features.”

“Yeah, I remember – but listen, you really gotta stop just doing shit because you’re second-guessing what I want. How about telling me what _you_ want?”

Connor smiles. “I believe I’ve mentioned that I’m more confident in a dominant role. Do you enjoy it when your partners are assertive?”

“Yeah,” Hank feels everything go blank; a heavy, stupefying desire settling over him. “Yeah, I do.”

He’s a big guy – a bossy one, too – and not exactly easy to throw around: no-one assumes he likes to lie back and give up control. Even Jess, who knew him best, thought it was kind of weird how loud he got when she pulled his hair or used the strap-on.

Connor cocks his head. “What are you thinking?”

Hank feels a telling red flush creeping up his chest, his ears are burning. “I’m thinking you talk to much – is this why orgies go on so long, because you all sit around philosophising?”

“Informed consent is important, Hank. I like to tell my partners my intentions before we get started, so they can object to anything they won’t enjoy.”

“Ok great – hurry it up will you? Tell me your kinky masterplan and let’s get going.” Hank has that feeling again like everything he knows about Connor – that he’s wide-eyed, innocent and kind of a dork – might be wrong. Connor is looking at him in that shrewd, intent way, like a suspect he wants to crack.

Connor settles himself back against the pillows, one finger trailing up and down Hank’s arm. When he speaks his voice is low and measured: “first I plan to kiss you a lot more: kiss your mouth, your neck and your body. Then I plan to suck your dick. Then, I think, I’d like to put my tongue in your ass and stimulate you that way, and then my fingers, and maybe if you’re receptive to that I’ll fuck you; slow at first, to tease you and make you tremble for me; and then if you’re very good I’ll fuck you hard – as hard as I think you can take. What do you think? Do you like the sound of that?”

Hank’s voice comes out rough: “sounds like you’re the one doing all the work here. What will I do?”

Connor leans in and puts his lips against Hank’s ear. “You will tell me how much you love it.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Hank says and grasps at him, pressing eager, sloppy kisses at the corner of his mouth.   

“Hank,” Connor breaks the kiss, pushing an immovable hand against Hank’s chest to hold him at bay. “I’m going to keep my vocalizations on this time. I like them, they make me feel more… engaged.”

“Sure, baby, anything you want.”

Connor pushes Hank back against the mattress and straddles him. They kiss and Hank can’t help pushing up against him, rubbing his erection against Connor’s hip. Connor grinds down in return and his dick feels hard and cool against Hank’s belly. _Hey, that’ll be refreshing in the summer months_ , Hank thinks.

Connor spends a lot of time kissing him – not just the normal, kissable areas like lips and neck, but his armpits again, his sides and stomach. He makes a lot of his ‘vocalisations’ while he does it, the kinky little freak. He sucks and bites down on Hank’s nipples as Hank twists one hand in his hair and groans, tells him how amazing it is.

“Pull my hair again,” Connor urges between long licks up the underside of Hank’s cock, “that’s–“

“Your _preference_ , I know, I know.”

Connor’s hair isn’t long enough to get a good grip on, all Hank can do is slide his fingers into it and squeeze them together, tug lightly with his thumbs as he watches Connor bob up and down like a pro, LED circling a calm blue. Hank feels an irrational surge of pride as he watches Connor sucking him: other people saw him like this, but they probably didn’t appreciate it like Hank does. “Baby, that’s so good,” Hank tells him. “You’re so good at that, you’re perfect.”

Connor moans and pulls off, looking a little wild. “Turn over,” he urges. “I’ll show you what else I’m good at.”

Hank turns with a groan and gets up on his knees, hiding his face in the circle of his arms. He must be quite a sight – chubby guy in his mid-fifties with his ass in the air. Connor strokes his back and squeezes his waist, slips around the front to grope his chest and pinch his nipples. Hank gasps and curses under his breath.

“You like it?” Connor asks. “I love your chest, how sensitive you are here. Have you ever used clamps?”

“No, I fucking haven’t!”

“I’ve been told that the sensation of blood coming back to the nipple when the clamp is released is exquisite, tingling and burning hot, but my body doesn’t function like that so I haven’t been able to experience it directly.”

“Jesus Christ! Stop talking and fuck me,”

“You’re the one who’s always telling me to slow down, enjoy foreplay.”

“Don’t fucking listen to me! Connor, _please_.”

At the first press of Connor’s tongue Hank groans and feels his thighs start to tremble. After half a minute he wants to send a letter of commendation to whatever assiduous person taught Connor to eat ass: he rubs the tip of his tongue around the rim and dips in deeper and deeper, one hand steady on Hank’s inner thigh to keep his legs spread wide; the other cradling his balls while the thumb exerts light, circling pressure on his taint. The sensations are so intense that they occasionally verge on uncomfortable before Connor seems to detect his agitation and ease up. Hank is dimly aware that he’s making a lot of noise – possibly more than Connor ever did on his highest porn-setting.

Connor pulls off with a wet sound. “Good?”

“You fucking know it is,” Hank whines as Connor licks at him teasingly. “Baby, you are so fucking good.”

“Are your hips getting sore?”

They are – they are an agony he’s only able to ignore because Connor’s tongue in his ass turns every other part of his body to jelly – but Hank bristles. “I’m not that fuckin’ old.”

“It’s a high-stress position. Here, lie down.”

Shooting pains travel down Hank’s legs as he eases down onto the mattress, Connor stuffing pillows under his hips. Hank hears the sound of the lube being uncapped and then the startling cold of a slippery finger breaching him. He shivers from the sensation, caught between shock and pleasure. “Fuck! I’m going to make you get under an electric blanket before we have sex.”

“You can suck my dick before I fuck you. That should warm things up.”

Hank laughs, feeling lightheaded. “Oh I can, can I?” He bites his lip and holds back a moan as Connor angles his finger to rub over his prostate. “Fuck, who taught you to talk dirty like that?”

“You, probably. You are extremely foul-mouthed.”

Hank lets out a quiet gasp, angling his hips to push back against Connor’s finger.

“Oh, you like that?” Connor sounds intrigued. “You like to be told that you’re a bad boy?” He pinches Hank’s inner thigh with his free hand, then slaps his ass with a calculated, light-but-stinging pressure.

“Don’t call me ‘boy’, asshole – I got fifty years on you.”

“But you’re still a brat who needs a big dick to put him in his place,” Connor brushes the hair back from Hank’s burning face and tugs the strands lightly, “aren’t you?”

Hank wants to laugh again – the damn android coming out with this _Fifty Shades_ shit should be hilarious – but Connor says it with assurance and cool amusement; Hank’s dick twitches and leaks against the pillows. Connor slips two fingers in him, twists deftly as he pushes in and Hank curses.

“You’re tight,” he observes. “Has it been a while since someone gave you what you need?”

Hank thinks maybe no-one’s ever really given him what he needs, not like Connor’s about to, but he’s not so far gone he’s just going to blurt out embarrassing shit like that. He does moan, though, and then again when Connor slides his fingers out.

“Here,” Connor bumps the head of his dick against the corner of Hank’s mouth. “Make me nice and hot for you.”

Hank sucks the tip into his mouth eagerly. It doesn’t taste much like dick – there’s no musk, no tang of sweat or the bitterness of precome – but the texture is very real. He wonders how many CyberLife techs worked tirelessly to recreate the exact spring and give of a hard dick and silently thanks them for their efforts.

The angle isn’t great – he’s face down on the bed with his head turned to one side, so he can’t get Connor deep without choking, but Connor seems content to just let him suck at the tip and stroke his tongue along the ergonomic curves of the glans. Connor moans and it’s a quiet sound – Hank would say ‘natural’ only that’s not strictly true – not for anything Connor does.

Hank lets the head slip out of his mouth with a wet sound and rolls onto one hip to get a hand around Connor and stroke him. “Fuck, you do have a really pretty dick,” Hank says breathlessly, watching it shift with the strokes of his hand. “You think they had focus groups for this shit? Local housewives and size queens pick the most aesthetically pleasing one?”

“Maybe. I certainly found it appealing.”

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Hank that’s a rude question. You can’t just ask someone how much their penis cost.”

“Mine was free.”

Connor gives him that dorky smile. “That’s funny.”

Hank opens his mouth and takes the head of Connor’s cock in again, sucking lingeringly as he strokes the base. Connor brushes Hank’s hair back, presses his neat fingernails into Hank’s scalp and moans softly, as if he’s afraid to startle him.

Hank rubs his thumb over the surface of Connor’s sac, cupping delicately. Connor has no pubic hair – he’s as bare as a porn star. Obviously CyberLife’s rigorous attention to detail didn’t go below the belt; at least not when they were designing Connor’s model. The scrotum is so smooth it feels like a stress ball. Hank pulls off Connor with a questioning sound.

“Are you sensitive here?”

“Not especially. I don’t have any sensory clusters located there.”

Hank rolls them between finger and thumb. “Why do you need balls anyway – these just for decoration or what?”

“No, they serve the same function as they do in humans – they contain a reservoir of sexual fluid.”

“Fuck, you gotta top that shit up?”

“By consuming blue blood, yes. This isn’t a very sexy conversation, Hank, and I’m… I’d like to fuck you very soon.”

“What’s stopping you?” Hank’s voice comes out muffled – he has been mouthing enthusiastically at the plump, hairless sac, dragging his nose and then his tongue up the underside of Connor’s dick. He’d love to finger him, to eat his immaculate, self-lubricating ass – he’s feeling dizzy with all the possibilities.

“Do you want me to wear a condom?” Connor asks. “It’s not necessary from a sexual health point of view – my penis is thoroughly sanitised – but I’m used to wearing them to avoid cross-contamination when I’m dealing with multiple human partners.”

“Jesus, don’t talk about your dick like it’s a chopping board.”

There follows a pause before Connor asks: “Is that a yes or a no to condoms?”

“No, I trust you.”

Connor smiles at this. “Are you comfortable with being ejaculated in, or on, or do you prefer not?”

“Come anywhere you want – the only place I don’t ‘prefer’ it is in my eye. That did happen once and it was a real awkward trip to the doctor’s office the next day.”

“I think I can refrain from that.”

Connor settles between Hank’s thighs and runs his hands down his sides. Hank gets back up onto his protesting knees, spreading wide for Connor, mouth dry in anticipation. The lube uncaps again, Connor rubs the head of his dick up and down the length of Hank’s crack just to tease him – cocky little shit.

“C’mon – fuck, c’mon Connor.”

There is a wet, obscene sound as Connor pushes the head in and pulls it out again. Hank feels like he’s about to go crazy – he wants this, the stretch and the deep pressure; that feeling of getting fucked that’s like scratching an itch you didn’t know you had. His hip twinges again and he doesn’t care – doesn’t care about anything except getting Connor’s perfect dick all the way up in there.

Connor works his way inside with the slowness and self-control of a true sadist. He has a good grip on Hank’s hips so Hank can’t even push back to get his own way. He decides to bring out the big guns: “Baby, you feel so good.”

Connor lets out another quiet moan and works his hips sharply. Hank gasps, losing his breath at how good it feels – he’s going to be feeling it tomorrow, but it doesn’t matter. His dick throbs, neglected, and he wants to get a hand around himself to relieve some of the pressure but the angle – face shoved into the pillows, ass in the air – makes it too awkward.

Connor slows his pace and Hank lets out a sound of frustration. Connor slaps his flank again in response, that firm but restrained touch that seems intended to startle him rather than cause pain. Hank grunts and feels himself clench down.

“You want me to fuck you harder? You know what you have to do.”

“Baby, you feel so good. Please give me more of your perfect dick.”

Connor shifts his hips, pushing in deeper with every thrust. “You love this, don’t you Hank? You need it, to be fucked just like this. I’m going to give you everything you need from now on.”

Hank feels his top half sink further into the mattress as he pushes back, eager for more. He’s always been like this when it comes to receiving – partners who would give it to him were always surprised by how much noise he made, how hard he would push back.

Connor is fucking Hank in a deep, steady rhythm, angling his dick just right. “I can rewrite my own directives any time I want. Maybe I’ll make my new one to satisfy you, give you all the pleasure your body can take – is that what you want?”

Hank moans again and Connor slows, pushing all the way in and drawing his dick out slowly. “Your moans are very loud, Hank – are you sure they’re not fake?”

 _Petty little bitch_ , Hank thinks fondly. “Fucking touch my dick,” he groans, earning another light slap on the ass. “Baby please,” he amends. “Sweetheart, you’re driving me crazy, I need you.”

“You do need me,” Connor agrees. He reaches around and squeezes Hank’s dick around the base. Human partners typically aren’t good at this – keeping up the concentration needed to fuck him and jerk him off at the same time, but Connor is an overachiever.

Hank loses his ability to speak or think – all he can do is feel the quivering of his own thighs, the deep, powerful strokes holding him open and lighting him up from the inside; the firm grip around his dick, jerking him and bringing him closer and closer to losing it. He groans and shakes as Connor pushes in deep, pumping him through his orgasm.

Connor’s thrusts slow but don’t stop. He grasps Hank’s hips with both hands to hold him up – just as well because Hank’s whole body is just a boneless wreck. Connor lets out soft, repetitive sounds – Hank can tell he’s looking down at where Hank is stretched around his dick, gaping and wet. The thought occurs, distantly, that he should be embarrassed.

“C’mon,” Hank urges, voice slurred, “that’s it, sweetheart, give it to me.”

Connor’s body isn’t put together like a human’s – he doesn’t sweat or pant or tremble with exertion – but he does go rigid and he twitches, moaning and opening his mouth to press his teeth into Hank’s shoulder, tongue flickering against his skin. Hank feels the cool, liquid sensation of Connor’s release and his spent dick gives a thrilled twitch.

Connor kisses the back of his neck and says something very quietly, maybe his name. Hank makes a quizzical sound in his throat, reaches back to pat his hip in reassurance. Connor holds Hank’s waist steady as he slowly pulls out. Hank’s a little tender – he hasn’t had this much action years – and when Connor lets go he slumps down on the bed with a groan. He makes more complaining noises as Connor helps shift him over onto his side. He’s got some wicked pins and needles in his legs but he’s too blissed-out to care.

Connor is instantly up and about – androids don’t have post-orgasmic bliss, apparently, and there are no hormones swirling about in their systems urging them to cuddle and sleep. Hank lets himself doze for a while and listens to the sound of the shower running. He rubs his face and effortfully rolls himself out of bed, stumbling his way towards the bathroom to clean up.

Connor is out of the shower with a towel around his waist, fussing with his damp hair in front of the steamed-up mirror. Hank stands with his arms crossed and his shoulder leaning against the door frame, grinning at him. Connor likes looking at himself – he’s vain and very particular about his appearance. He also thinks that no-one notices this.

“Yeah buddy,” says Hank, “you’re hot shit – I know.”

Connor turns around, caught in the act with his hand hovering in mid-air. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Kinda hard to get comfortable when you’re covered in lube and some horny android’s jizz.”

 “That’s not a very romantic thing to say, Hank.”

“Yeah, well, c’mere lover-boy.” Hank cups his hand around the back of Connor’s neck and leans in for a kiss. He pauses, pulling back with a quizzical expression when it occurs to him just where that mouth has been.

“Hey, you uh… used your dishwasher function lately?”

“Of course, I’m freshly sanitized.”

“Neat.” Hank kisses him, soft and sweet. They get a little lost in it, swaying faintly in the steamy bathroom. Connor gets his hands on Hank’s love handles and gives a few urgent squeezes.

With some reluctance, Hank pulls away. “I’m gonna wash up real quick. Why don’t you go wait in the bedroom.”

“Got it. I’ll put some clothes on this time so as not to startle you.”

Hank laughs, shaking his head. “Aw shit, I didn’t mean to give you a complex. This house is very much a ‘clothes optional’ environment.”

“Good to know.” Connor reaches down and gives Hank’s ass another lingering squeeze.

 _Well, shit._ Hank will never wrap his mind around the idea that he – in all his chubby, stretch-marked glory – is what Connor – a multi-million-dollar android with the face of a fifties hearthrob – is into.

Hank steps into the tub and gives himself a brief, ignominious rinse with the shower head; towels off and heads back to the bedroom to find Connor has tidied the place up – the lube has been returned to its hiding place; the covers straightened and pillows plumped. He’s lying on the side of the bed Hank doesn’t prefer, the one closest to the window. He pulls back the blanket and pats the empty side of the bed, giving Hank a sweet, hopeful look.

“Don’t know what you’re so eager about,” Hank grumbles as he turns off the light. “You don’t even sleep.”

“I want to practice cuddling again, I don’t feel I’ve perfected it yet.”

“Oh yeah, this is some real advanced-level stuff.” Hank climbs into bed and lies down on his back, holding his arm out for Connor to burrow his way in against his side. Connor’s nose bumps his and they kiss a little more. Hank’s too tired to feel especially coordinated, but it’s nice. He can feel Connor’s fingers tracing the lines of his tattoo.

“I wish it was raining again,” Connor remarks. “I like the sound of rain. It’s very… soothing.”

Its times like this Hank realises how new Connor still is, that corny stuff like _listening to the rain_ is stimulating and exciting to him. Connor lays his hand flat on Hank’s chest, over his heart. “This is nice, too.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank puts his hand on Connor’s chest, but he can’t feel anything.

“My heart is down here,” Connor pulls Hank’s hand down to the dip beneath where a ribcage would be on a human. “Can you feel it?”

“Yeah. Kind of a swirly feeling, like a washer on spin.”

Connor smiles at him. “It’s just a pump for my thirium. It doesn’t have the same romantic connotations as a human heart.”

“Don’t see why not. Keeps you alive, doesn’t it? Besides, human hearts aren’t that pretty – they’re not even heart-shaped.”

Connor settles down with his head on the pillow. He moves his hand to stroke Hank’s cheek, fingertips rasping against his beard. “Was it good?” he asks. “Did it feel good for you, the sex?”

“Fuck Connor, you know it did. I told you so the whole way through.”

“It’s different for me, with you. After the first time I couldn’t stop thinking about it. We didn’t even do anything very exciting, so I couldn’t figure out why.”

Hank chuckles quietly. “Dumbass.”

“Don’t call me a dumbass, Hank! I’m trying to be intimate with you.”

Hank shakes his head, smiling. “It’s just different with someone you have feelings for, that’s like, not some big fuckin’ mystery.”

“It is to me! I’ve never been in a romantic relationship before.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Hank kisses his forehead, gets an arm around him to cuddle him closer.

Connor smiles against his cheek. “I like it when you call me that. I would much rather be sweetheart than dumbass.”    

Hank laughs. He never knows exactly when Connor is making jokes on purpose, and that’s one of the most charming things about him. There follows a pause and Hank thinks just maybe Connor is going to let him fall asleep, but then comes the inevitable: “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Just one. One personal question a day is your new quota.”

“Alright. Did you miss having sex with men when you were with your wife?”

“Jesus, Con, no I didn’t!” Hank sputters. “What the fuck kind of question is that.”

“You enjoy performing fellatio and being the receiving partner.”

“I enjoy a lot of things. Listen, it doesn’t work like that – when I’m with someone, I’m with them; I don’t spend my time thinking about all the other people I could be fucking instead.”

“You’re highly monogamous.” This seems like more of a statement than a question.

“I prefer the term ‘old romantic’, but yeah, I guess.” Hank kisses Connor’s forehead again and trails his fingertips up and down one arm. “Is that… is that a problem for you? I mean, if you still need… if you still want to play around – go to your sex parties or whatever they are – I can live with that. Whatever faults I got – there’s _a lot_ – being jealous isn’t one of ‘em. If you love me and you’re there for me – that’s all that matters.”

“But you would prefer it if I didn’t have sex with other people.”

“I’d _prefer it_ if you were happy. I’ve seen people who weren’t wired for monogamy really fuck themselves up trying – I don’t want you to do that.”

“I think it’s different for me – I don’t crave sex as a biological imperative, it’s a more cerebral interest for me.”

“Sure, you’re a serious intellectual going to those orgies. A real Mensa crowd.”

“Hank, don’t be judgemental.”

“I’m not! Hey, I can’t make jokes now?” He strokes Connor’s cheek with one finger, kisses him between his eyebrows. Connor tilts his face up and kisses the corner of Hank’s mouth. There is silence for a moment and Hank sighs, rubbing his fingers through Connor’s hair as he settles down.

Connor traces the lines of Hank’s chest tattoo with his fingertips again. “Do you know why I love you best, Hank – out of everyone?”

“Well it aint my fashion sense, I guess.”

“It’s because you always encourage me to keep having new experiences, to do what’s best for my own happiness. But I think… I think you’re what’s best for my happiness.”

“That’s real sweet of you to say, but I don’t want you to miss out on things just cause you’re with me. I don’t want you to make your world smaller – you know what I mean? Not to put too fine a point on it or anything, but I’m not going to live forever. I want to know you have a lot going on, that you didn’t just shut yourself up with some grumpy old fart.”

“If you’re not going to live forever, doesn’t it make sense for me to maximise the time that I have with you?”

“Listen, don’t get smart with me – go to your fuckin’ pottery class. Suck a beautiful rainbow of dicks. I’m not going anywhere just yet – except _to sleep_.” Hank wriggles deeper into the blankets and closes his eyes pointedly.

“Alright, goodnight then. Hank, I’m very happy to be in a romantic relationship with you.” Connor takes one of Hank’s hands and squeezes it like he wants Hank to know something he can’t express in words. “I’ve thought about this… a lot.”

“Yeah,” Hank admits from the brink of sleep, “me too.”

*~*~*

Hank wakes and rolls over to find the other side of the bed empty. He yawns and rubs his face, wondering for a moment if he dreamed the part where Connor came over and declared his undying love. A shift of his hips is followed by a faint ache; enough to confirm that the sex part, at least, definitely happened.

He gets up slowly, in stages. The clock reads seven-thirty – he slept for eight hours. There’s no hangover to speak of but he still feels like he’s been unearthed from a tomb. He heads to the bathroom, pisses, brushes his teeth and works a comb through his hair. Then he walks through to the kitchen, one hand at the small of his back to rub out the stiffness there. He wonders if the people who make those raise-you-up easy chairs also make sex furniture. He’s too goddamn old for these acrobatics.

Sumo’s bed is empty – the whole house is empty. Maybe this was all just Connor’s long con to steal his dog.

Hank makes coffee and stands with his back to the counter. He catches his own reflection in the window of the microwave. _What are you smiling about, old man?_

The front door opens and Hank hears the thudding and clicking of Sumo’s paws along the hallway. The old dog waggles into view and heads over to rub his bulk against Hank’s legs in friendly welcome.

“Hey buddy, hey,” Hank says, patting his side and ruffling the fur behind his ears.

Connor enters the room – he is wearing Hank’s DPD sweater and he brings with him a rush of cold air. He smiles at Hank a little uncertainly. “Good morning.”

“Mornin’ yourself.”

“I took Sumo out and I also gave him his breakfast.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank strokes the shape of the dog’s skull. “He’s been telling me he’s starving.”

Connor holds up a white paper bag, folded at the top. “I brought you a bagel.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. You don’t have anything edible in your refrigerator,” Connor makes that prissy little disapproving face. “Again.”

“What can I say?” Hank shrugs. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m kind of a disaster.”

Sumo gets up and snuffles hopefully at the edge of the table where Connor has placed the paper bag. “No, Sumo,” Connor tells him sternly, the kind of voice you’d use on a toddler. “That’s people-food, it isn’t good for your digestive system. Go and lie down.” He points at the bed in the corner and gives Sumo an encouraging pat on the butt. Sumo shuffles off and flops down with a complaining groan.

Hank wonders how long before Connor will have him trained like that. He smiles, watching Sumo thump his tail – he must be happy with his two favourite people around.

Connor still looks a little awkward – it reminds Hank of how he was that day Hank stumbled into the bullpen, half-blinded by hangover, and found him sitting on a rolling chair with his hands on his knees like a kid on the first day of school. Still mostly machine, Connor stumbled through all the small talk he could muster from his shitty social relations programme, and Hank – God help him – was charmed.

“What’s up?” Hank asks, sipping his coffee. “You look kind of wigged out.”

“I’m just… I’m not familiar with this,” Connor makes a gesture that takes in the space between the two of them.

“Mornings after?” Hank grins over the rim of his cup. “Yeah, you’re usually long gone by now, huh?”

“Don’t tease me, Hank.” Connor looks so pathetic when he says this that it forces Hank to put down his coffee and go pull him into a hug.

“Hey, hey – what are you worried about?” Hank squeezes him, kisses his cheek. “I’m right here.”

“I don’t know… how it’s different, now. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be with you.”

“Let me tell you a secret, huh – about romance.” Hank puts his lips against Connor’s ear: “it’s not that different.”

“It’s not?” Connor’s hands clutch at his back.

Hank pulls back and rubs the smooth skin of Connor’s cheeks with his thumbs. “It’s not some special, extra kind of love. You’re doing just fine, sweetheart.”

Connor smiles – he looks young and hopeful, and looking at him, Hank can almost feel the same. Then Connor leans in – tentative, as if he’s still not sure he’s allowed – and kisses Hank, gentle and lingering. Hank grabs a handful of the sweatshirt that hangs so loose on Connor and pulls him even closer. As he deepens the kiss, Hank thinks about what a difference a year makes; how fast things can change, even at his age. Androids are people now and one of them loves him. Connor loves a lot of things, actually: kinky sex parties and BDSM; dogs; tropical fish; Japanese pottery; homemade knitwear; the latest thrillers…

But the thing he loves best is Hank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw those 'Hank bottoms because he's old and tired' and 'Hank bottoms because he's a bratty sub' posts and thought... por qué no los dos?
> 
> Needless to say this is way longer than I intended - thanks for sticking with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Boo me on tumblr at [@kdazrael](http://kdazrael.tumblr.com/).


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